


Marquess My Words, Dear Watson

by hannahrieu



Series: Untitled Nobility [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6937093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrieu/pseuds/hannahrieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has left Sherlock Holmes to his addiction. He finds himself in Tangier, fighting to save the city from an outbreak of enteric fever, until Captain Greg Lestrade shows up and informs him of the reason behind Sherlock's abhorrent behavior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Outbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John follows Felipe into the city to fight an outbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WIP, will post every Sunday, sooner if I complete the chapter ahead of time.

_Sherlock was sitting on the beach in his white tie and dinner jacket. His elbows rested on bent knees, his dark curls blowing in the sea breeze._

_He turned and smiled, his eyes reflecting the color of the ocean waves. His skin glowed, healthy and pink. He reached up, extending his long, graceful fingers._

_John stood at his side, dressed in his valet uniform. He reached out and felt the vibration, the undeniable connection as their fingers mingled together. John tried to help Sherlock to his feet, but he was too heavy. Instead, he fell into Sherlock’s lap._

_Sherlock chuckled at John’s startled expression. He leaned forward and kissed him gently, caressing his cheek with a tender thumb._

_John melted into his chest, his mouth opening to let Sherlock do as he pleased. A sweet tongue licked at his reddened lips. John sighed and deepened the kiss as he straddled his lover’s long legs._

_Long fingers glided along his thick hips, finding a home against his soft bottom. Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth as he rolled his hips against John’s soft length. John gasped as his head fell back, his hands scrambling for purchase against his partner’s chest. He buried his small fists in the pressed dinner jacket, wrinkling it, ruining it._

_Sherlock continued to rock his hips, not stopping until John’s sex grew into steel, engorged and leaking to the point of pain. John became light-headed. He feared he might faint._

_“Sherl-...”he whimpered, out of breath._

_“What is it, John?” Sherlock rumbled, his lips brushing against his own. “My John,” he whispered. He rolled his hips again, slowly, generously, his arse grinding into the sand._

_“I’m, I’m -” stuttered John. Sherlock caught his lips and kissed him roughly. John pulled away, gasping. “I’m ruining your jacket,” he pleaded. “You have to...ungggh...you have guests -ahh-downstairs…”_

_Sherlock’s mouth cut him off mid sentence, his tongue, firm and slick, playing with his own. He pulled his valet close to his chest and held on to him tightly. He thrusted up into him hard, again, and again, and again._

_John moaned, having no choice but to hold on for the ride. He felt Sherlock’s large hand on the back of his blonde head, his fingers pushing his damp forehead onto his shoulder._

_Sherlock’s lips nuzzled his ear as his honeyed-baritone whispered,_

_“Release yourself, John. I've got you.”_

_John stopped breathing for a moment as he released, a sob escaping his throat as he tried to draw breath. He came harder than he ever had in his life, pleasure crashing through him like the ocean waves just a few feet away. He buried his head in Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in, the smell of sandalwood ever present, mixing deliciously with the scent of his skin. He bucked and writhed against Sherlock until he was completely spent, raw to the touch. He collapsed against his chest._

_When he sat up, he realized his clothes were gone. His soft sex laid lifelessly against Sherlock’s bespoke trousers. He gasped at Sherlock’s dinner jacket, which was torn and streaked with his fluid._

_“What have I done?” he said, panicking. “Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock…”_

_Sherlock’s demeanor turned cold and cruel. His eyes glared at him sharply._

_“You’ve ruined my jacket, Watson,” he snapped._

_The sand beneath him began to shake. Sherlock began to sink._

_John tried to get up, but Sherlock held onto him, refusing to let go. They struggled as Sherlock sunk deeper into the sand, the tiny particles filling in on top of them as the hole grew deeper._

_“Sherlock!” John cried. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”_

_Sand filled John’s mouth, choking him, as the beach swallowed them whole._

John awoke with a start, rattling the old cot in the apothecary. He ran a palm over his damp face, forcing himself to concentrate, lifting himself out of the hellish nightmare that seemed to catch up with him every few days.

He flipped over onto his side and shut his eyes, hoping in vain sleep would find him before the sunrise.

There was a loud, hard knock at the door. John sat up and removed his gun from the holster fastened underneath the cot’s frame.

“John, open up!” shouted the voice on the other side.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” said John as he opened the door.

Felipe walked in as far as the waiting room and stopped, a look of concern on his weathered, handsome face.

“Luxus and Masnana are underwater. Flash flooding,” he said. “I need your help.”

John nodded his head. “Of course.”

“There's an outbreak,” he continued. “Enteric fever. The flooding-”

“Tangier,” John said, quickly understanding the severity of the problem. “They have to shut off the main waterways.”

Felipe shook his head. “It’s too late,” he said. “All the diplomats and city officials fled to the sea as soon as they heard.” He sat down heavily in one of the chairs, burying his head in his hands. “I tried to shut them myself but the citizens refused.”

“Unbelievable,” muttered John. “Are there confirmed cases inside the city walls?”

Felipe nodded. “I have a dozen symptomatic. But by the end of the week…”

John steeled himself against the dread filling his chest.

It was going to be a long summer.

\--------------

Felipe left Jean Pierre with orders to make the school into a makeshift infirmary in case the disease reared it’s ugly head in the village. John packed up what he could and followed the Spaniard into the city.

The Tangier School of Medicine was located in an old Spanish missionary, most recently used as a boarding school for the daughters of diplomats. It was located down the street from the Grand Mosque, a tall beautiful structure that was the pride and center of the city. Felipe’s seven students, all young males, consisted of four Franciscans, two Moroccan Muslims and one Spanish civilian. John was quickly introduced to one of the young Muslims, Ahad.

“Ahad wants to be a surgeon,” said Felipe. “He’s your assistant. Operating room is in there,” he said, pointing to a tiny room in the back with a large curtain drawn to the side. The Spaniard continued barking orders at the students.

John glanced at the operating room and turned back to Felipe.

“Wait,” he said.

All the students turned to look at him as Felipe went silent. John pulled him to the side.

“Surgery?” he whispered. “It’s one thing to let me run the apothecary, but this - ”

“This is not a time to be modest, John.”

John shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said, pointing to the curtained room. “I can’t do this.”

Felipe looked at him thoughtfully, his big brown eyes flashing with admiration.

“I saw you with the young woman.”

“Young woman...” John repeated, confused.

Felipe pointed a finger at his chest. “Last Thursday. She was dying. Asfixia. You didn’t hesitate. Hands as steady as Job.” He held out a large, calloused hand to demonstrate. “Cleanest traqueotomía I have ever seen.” He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. “In the war, in the infirmary, how many surgical procedures did you perform? As an assistant? By yourself?”

“I don’t know,” answered John. “Probably hundreds.”

“And in the field? While the bloody Afghans shot at your head, how many men did you keep from bleeding to death?”

“I have no idea. But Felipe,” said John, growing impatient. “I don’t have the credentials. Like I told you before, I’m not even a doctor.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said passionately, shaking his head. He lowered his head and whispered, “Don’t make me beg.”

He glanced over again at his new operating room. He gave Felipe an assured, small nod.

“Ahad,” John said. “Come with me.”

  
\-----------------------

_The bedroom was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the open curtains. An elegant silhouette sat with knees bent, calves tucked neatly underneath thighs. The room was cool because a breeze was blowing, but the window was closed._

_The figure turned. Sherlock's eyes shone like diamonds as they reflected the moonlight. The breeze blew his wild curls as he rose up on his knees and bent over, exposing his naked behind._

_“I need you,” he said softly._

_John started to walk toward him, but another dark figure blocked his way. Felipe walked up behind Sherlock and gently stroked his back and buttocks, making the younger man squirm._

_Felipe turned to John. He swept his arm out in a grand gesture behind him. Suddenly, the room was filled with a thousand beds as far as the eye could see. Moans and cries filled the air. John looked around helplessly._

_Felipe approached him and placed a large hand on his shoulder._

_“You can save one, or you can save a thousand,” he said solemnly. “The choice is yours, but you must choose.”_

_John looked down, his hands covered in blood. He was operating. Ahad stood by his side, a cold, stoic expression mauling his pleasant features._

_“Ahad, quickly, he’s bleeding out,” barked John._

_Ahad didn’t move._

_“Ahad!” shouted John. “Now!”_

_Ahad looked at him, his eyes hard and dead. He spoke, but the voice was not his own._

_It was Sherlock’s._

_“Are you finished?” he said._

_“What?” whispered John. He looked down._

_Sherlock stared up at him from the operating table. The light had left his eyes. His breath was still. Blood from his body continued to pour all over the floor. John felt himself begin to hyperventilate. No, no, no, he thought. Ahad threw his head back and laughed…_

John awoke, his head snapping upright from resting on his chest. He’d not meant to doze off. He checked the time. He’d sent Ahad to bed hours ago.

Felipe walked over just as John stood up from his chair. He managed to stifle a yawn.

“I can sleep anywhere as well,” Felipe said, nodding at the hard, straighback chair. “Once I slept standing up through a Cavalry charge.”

John smiled. “Aye, I learned that in service.” Felipe shot him a curious look. “I was a footman for a marquess before joining the army,” he explained.

Felipe laughed, a hearty sound that filled the room. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder, much like he did in the dream. “Come, let’s eat while we have the time.”

They sat down to a meal of cold meats, fruit and beer. They ate in silence for several moments.

“How is your friend?” asked Felipe carefully as he peeled an orange. He offered John a slice.

“I’m not sure,” replied John. “I asked Jean Pierre to warn him about the outbreak.” John kept shoveling food in his mouth, not looking up.

Felipe stopped peeling and placed a large hand on John’s. He looked at him kindly.

“You can bring him here if you wish,” he said gently. "We might be able to help him."

John quickly shook his head. “He wouldn't come,” he answered sadly. 

"Are you sure about that?" 

John nodded. "He hates me now." 

"For leaving?" 

He finally looked up at Felipe, his eyes wide and burning. "I had to leave," he said. "I had to," he repeated, as if convincing himself. 

Felipe nodded, his gaze full of empathy. He didn't say anything and went back to peeling his orange.

\--------------------

Felipe was right. By the end of the week, the hospital was filled halfway with symptomatic patients from all over the city.

Since the outbreak was in the early stages, John and Felipe split shifts in order to instruct the students on how to treat the sick. They would see each other in passing, giving each other brief updates on medical supplies and patient load, then one would rest while the other ran the floor.

One week melted into two, and the third week, all hell broke loose. The hospital was overrun with patients. Even the floors were filled with those suffering from the sickness. John kept watch on those progressing into the third stage. In the beginning, he was in surgery every few days, but now he was averaging one every 18-24 hours. Perforated bowels mostly. Some were lucky and had already pulled through. Those patients were sent home with strict instructions on what to eat and drink. Most, though, were still in the thick of it, and more were pouring in.

After a particularly bloody surgery where he’d lost the patient, John shuffled wearily into the tiny sitting room off to the side of the main hall. He closed the door behind him and collapsed onto the cot.

He was startled by a figure in the corner. He turned for a better look.

Felipe was sitting on a stool facing the corner, his broad frame overwhelming the tiny piece of furniture. He looked worried, his palm rubbing his jaw over and over.

“What?” asked John. “What’s happened?”

Felipe turned at looked him with eyes full of exhaustion. “Nothing,” he said, trying to smile but failing. “Just tired is all.”

John got up and poured two drinks into tin cups. He handed one to Felipe, clinking the cups.

“Bottoms up,” he said, swallowing the entire contents of the glass, relishing the burn as it made it’s way down into his chest.

Felipe swallowed his just as quickly. John refilled the cups. Again they emptied them.

He filled them again. And again.

John pulled Felipe to his feet. “Come on,” he said loosely. “We can sleep anywhere. We’re soldiers.”

They both collapsed onto the bed sitting up, backs against the wall.

“Bloody, drafted, bootlicking, blazing bull tits typhoid,” slurred John. “Fuck all.” He sighed and slumped heavily against the wall.

He felt the bed shake. He looked over and Felipe had the back of his hand over his mouth, laughing. He let out a howl and fell over, his smile revealing beautiful white teeth and a deep set of crinkled crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“What?” said John, grinning and giggling at his comrade, who was now in tears.

“Bull tits typhoid,” he said between breaths. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh John, muchas gracias.”

John smiled gratefully at Felipe. It had been a long time since he’d made someone laugh.

“You're welcome,” he said softly.

Felipe settled back against the wall and was soon asleep. John watched his broad chest rise up and down evenly under his crossed arms. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, his booted feet propped up on the tiny stool. John curled up and gazed at his kind face, his tiny wrinkles now smooth, his well-defined jaw lax and making his lips form a soft pout.

He wondered who the Spaniard was, what his story might be, and how someone so important, kind and experienced could have such faith in him.

His mind drifted to Sherlock. It always did, no matter how hard he tried to forget.

Capable. Important. Valued. Something Sherlock had made him feel.

He had also made Sherlock giggle, something others could rarely incite.

It had been one month to the day since he’d left. At this point, John knew there was a chance Sherlock was no longer alive.

The mere hint of the thought made his throat tighten. He closed his eyes and swallowed, forcing the thought from his mind and pushing it deep down inside of him.

When he opened his eyes, his line of vision was parallel with Felipe’s broad chest, rising and falling with his even breaths.

He reached forward in his drunkenness and placed a small, strong hand over the Spaniard’s heart. He rubbed the spot tenderly with his thumb, then rested his blonde head on Felipe’s wide shoulder.

He fell asleep.

For once, the nightmares stayed away. 

\------------------------

John woke up alone on the cot, his head pounding and his mouth dry. He heard a tremendous amount of shouting from outside the tiny room, making him deeply regret his decision to drink until drunk. 

He rose from the cot and quietly opened the door. The raucous was coming from outside the building. The voices were numerous, shouting in anger, then suddenly quieted down. 

John heard Felipe speak, then the voices began shouting again even louder than before. John snuck back into the room to retrieve his gun from under the cot, then made his way to the front entrance.

Felipe stood unarmed in front of a mob of angry villagers. He desperately tried to calm them, but whatever he said only seemed to make them angrier. John crept up beside Ahad, who was watching all the commotion with fear in his eyes.

“What are they saying?” asked John, the gun hidden, resting in his pocket. 

Ahad swallowed. “They are accusing Felipe of hoarding supplies and water,” he said. “They demand he turn over the supplies or they will take them by force.”

“That’s a bit not good,” John mumbled, licking his lips.

They both watched in horror as the mob became violent. The villagers began to throw rocks at Felipe, who threw up an arm to cover his face from the assault. A large, sharp stone hit him hard in the neck, puncturing skin and drawing blood. He fell to his knees as the crowd descended upon him and towards the hospital. 

John drew the Browning from his pocket and stormed the crowd, pointing the barrel up in the air and firing two successive shots. The crowd immediately froze and grew quiet. John aimed the weapon at one side while assessing the other. Two of the medical students picked up Felipe and brought him back inside the hospital. 

“Ahad,” John commanded. “Come here.”

Ahad was shaking as he bravely stepped forward. 

“I need you to tell these people to go back to their homes,” said John. “If they do not leave immediately I will shoot them.”

Ahad’s eyes grew wide. He turned and addressed the crowd, interpreting John’s words.

The crowd mumbled and some began to back off. A few shouted back. 

“Tell them that they have to the count of three.”

Ahad interpreted, then he began to count. 

John stepped forward and pointed the gun directly at one of the men whom he had deduced to be one of the instigators. They both stared at each other for a good long while. 

Finally, the man called out to the group. The crowd began to dissipate, until there was no one left in the street. 

John sighed and lowered his gun. He patted Ahad on the back. 

“You’re going to make one hell of an army doctor with those nerves of steel,” he said, praising the young man. “Come on, let’s go change our pants.”

Ahad managed a tiny smile at John’s attempt at humor, then bent over and vomited up his entire supper all over the hospital steps.


	2. Captain Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felipe and John's relationship becomes physical. Captain Lestrade is on a mission to find Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will continue to post every Sunday unless I finish a chapter early.  
> Thanks again for all your lovely comments. :)

The students laid Felipe on the operating table because it was the only free bed besides their own cots. Blood ran between the Spaniard’s fingers as he pressed on the wound. He tried to speak, but it caused pain to radiate up through his neck and into his head.

Patients cried out upon hearing the gunshots. Then entire ward went silent, awaiting their fate.

A collective sigh of relief swept through the silence as Ahad, looking rather pale, stumbled inside with John Watson hot on his heels. The acting surgeon made a beeline for Felipe, his expression dissolving from concern to anger.

“Why is Dr. Canales bleeding all over my table?” he barked at the young men. “And why are you all standing around with your head up your arses? One of you should be administering treatment here, and the rest should be checking on, oh I don’t know, our other one hundred and fifty patients!”

John, who had never raised his voice in anger, kept muttering under his breath. “Unacceptable,” he said, noisily slamming a cabinet door and pulling out supplies. Most of the men took the opportunity to scatter, leaving Ahad behind.

John handed the young Moroccan a needle and thread.

“In most combat situations, you will not be able to move your patient to a secure location,” he said sternly, pulling out his surgical dressings. “You’ll treat the patient under possible threat or live fire, so keep it simple. First, stop the bleeding. Place pressure on the wound to restrict the blood flow. Dr. Canales is doing quite a lovely demonstration for us here,” he said, smiling down at the Spaniard.

Felipe, still conscious, glanced up at John and grunted in response.

“Examine your patient. Ask them if they are injured elsewhere. Absence of proof is not proof of absence, yeah?” said John, looking expectantly at Felipe, who shook his head while wincing in pain. John quickly examined the Spaniard from head to toe, at one point lifting the tail of his shirt to reveal a large, mangled scar on his abdomen. He quickly covered him back up. “Now, clean and stitch the wound.”

John gently pried Felipe’s fingers away from his neck and wiped the blood away. Ahad sewed the wound shut carefully and placed the dressing on top. John then sent the student off to check on patients, leaving him alone with Felipe.

John leaned down and let the tip of his thumb brush against the scruff on the doctor’s cheek.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly. “Quite a hero, you.”

Felipe’s eyes filled with gratitude as he extended a weak arm and an open palm. John took his hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly.

“Thank you,” whispered Felipe. He shut his big brown eyes and fell asleep.

  
\--------------

Felipe was back on his feet the next morning. Luckily the mob hadn't returned, but John still arranged an organized rotation of “guards” in place at all hours, meaning he and the students switched out every three hours to keep watch. John had the one pistol which he entrusted with the young men. He found it frustrating being so under protected.

Several days passed with little excitement. After a particularly grueling surgery, John stepped into the tiny sitting area to rest. He sat on the stool and unbuttoned his shirt, rubbing his scar with his palm and massaging the back of his neck. He needed a bath and a good long walk.

He heard the door open behind him. John turned to see Felipe enter, looking weary. He smiled and approached the Spaniard.

“How's that wound? Itching to hell’s gate and back I'm sure,” he said, gently tipping Felipe’s chin back to inspect the dressing. “Looks good though, no sign of infection.”

He went to turn away, but the doctor caught his hand. Felipe's dark eyes burned intensely, his expression fierce. He placed a hand delicately on the back of John's neck, his breath quickening as he licked his full lips.

John felt the strong, capable hand grip him, the touch sending shivers down his tailbone and into his groin. He felt himself stir. He took a deep shaky breath as the Spaniard bent his head and leaned in.

Felipe's lips brushed his softly. When John didn't pull away, he pushed the younger man into the door and passionately devoured every inch of his mouth. Both men grunted as their bodies pressed tightly against each other, feeling the other stiffen with want. As their kisses grew deeper and longer, John slid his hand under Felipe's shirt and intentionally placed it over his scar.

Felipe’s forehead furrowed as he slowed his lips. His palm cradled the back of John's blonde head as his long fingers acknowledged the hand on his abdomen. John stopped briefly to give the older man an empathetic, knowing look, then moved his small, strong hand up and down his large, muscled chest.

Felipe sighed unabashedly as a thumb briefly stroked his nipple. His head dipped forward as his mouth released John's wet, red lips.

“I've wanted to do this every day since the first day I saw you,” Felipe panted. “And after what you did for me…” He manhandled John away from the door and they both fell back onto the old, squeaky cot. John straddled his lap and undid the buttons of his shirt, exposing his broad chest graced with large patches of smooth dark hair. He ran his fingers along the lines of his pectorals, stopping to grace a nipple with a gentle tug.

Felipe held him close and kissed him, powerful hips threatening to grind up into his sex and end it all too quickly. John pulled off his own shirt and quickly undid Felipe's trousers, pulling them down to his knees.

John had never seen a body like Felipe's, dripping in line after symmetrical line of muscle and tendon. His abdomen formed a V that led down to another patch of dark hair. His stiff cock wavered in the exposed air, long and thick and perfect. He took hold of it gently, relishing the heat and smoothness in his palm. He stroked it and let his thumb dance over the tip, feeling wetness dribble from the top.

Felipe stroked John's shoulders as he watched him play with his body, every few moments bringing him close for long, wet kisses, then head falling back against the wall as his sex was worked thoroughly by his surgeon’s expert hands. He released within minutes of John’s ministrations, shaking violently as his muscles spasmed, holding onto and staring at John like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Moments later, Felipe had John on his back and his trousers off. He licked a long wet line down John's stomach. John held him fast as he said,

“I need a bath.”

Felipe smiled as his gaze held John's. He licked with a flat tongue up his length, then back down again.

“Tastes fine to me.”

John felt his whole chest flush with desire. He watched with anticipation as the Spaniard licked him again, then wrapped his glistening lips around the head of his sex.

So much heat, tongue applying pressure in all the right places, so wet. John released within seconds into Felipe's mouth, his hips bucking helplessly into his generous, firm lips.

Felipe kissed him and stroked his chest. His fingers lingered over John's bad shoulder, inspecting the mangled tissue. They settled into each other's arms, the safety of the cot serving as a brief respite from the chaos outside the tiny sitting room. They kissed lazily off and on, resting and enjoying each others soft touches and caresses.

“When did this happen?” murmured Felipe, briefly stroking John's wound.

“Four years ago, now,” said John, remembering. “Doesn't seem that long ago.”

“It never does.”

John shifted so he laid face to face with the Spaniard. He stroked his stubbled jawline with his forefinger.

“When did yours happen?”

“15 years ago,” he replied sadly. “It was the worst day of my life.”

John placed his palm over Felipe's abdomen.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

Felipe hesitated, but he didn't break his gaze. He finally spoke, emotion stuck to every word tumbling from his swollen lips.

“I was in Cuba,” he said softly. “We were marching and were attacked from all sides by the rebels. In the confusion, I was shot by my comrade,” he said. He then chuckled to himself. “I was so angry, I remember thinking that I would kill him after the battle. He knelt down to help me, but a bullet struck him from behind.” Felipe’s expression turned cloudy as he remembered. “He fell into my lap. The back of his skull was completely...it was gone.”

Paralyzingly chills ran down John’s body as he listened to Felipe’s story, his tragedy freakishly parallel to his own experience. He told Felipe about Bill dying in the field in Kandahar, and how he’d been shot and forced back into service.

“Our bodies heal,” said Felipe. “But your friend, his injury is in his mind. Treating the mind is not so easy.”

John shut his eyes and sucked in his breath. The anger and resentment he’d felt for Sherlock had slowly disappeared over the last few weeks. It had been replaced with overwhelming guilt. He nodded in response.

Felipe stroked his cheek and whispered to him.

“I know you care for him. He was your lover, no?”

John nodded again. He finally dared to open his eyes.

Felipe smiled at him kindly. “We will go tomorrow. He will not have the strength to fight us both.”

John’s throat swelled with emotion at the Spaniard’s selfless offer. He kissed him since he couldn’t speak, letting his lips and tongue show his appreciation.

\-------------------

They awoke to Ahad shouting their names. He was banging on the door to the sitting room.

Luckily they had both dressed before falling asleep together. Felipe opened the door to find a terrified Ahad, holding John’s loaded pistol in a shaking hand.

“Doctor Canales, Dr. Watson, they’re back.”

Felipe and John gave each other wary, grave looks and followed Ahad to the hospital’s entrance. He turned and handed John the Browning before they walked out to the courtyard.

A crowd of fifteen men stood in a semicircle in front of the hospital, holding knives, swords and rocks. The same man that John had confronted several days before stepped forward and shouted at him angrily.

John, unable to understand the language, watched for Felipe and Ahad’s reaction. Felipe answered immediately, throwing his hands up passively.

The man took a step forward as did the crowd. Felipe pleaded with them again as they approached. John drew his gun and pointed it at the ringleader. He stopped and again shouted.

“What did he say?” asked John.

“He said, you can’t shoot all of us,” replied Ahad.

The man laughed and ran toward Felipe.

John shot him in the leg.

He yelped and fell to the ground. The crowd behind him hesitated, but the man began to shout orders at them, motioning for them to attack.

The crowd moved forward in a huge, descending blob of knives, sweat and desperation. John told Ahad and Felipe to get inside and bar the door. Felipe refused and pulled out a knife, nodding to John that they attack together. John took aim, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire.

Shots rang out behind the mob. The men from the village quickly turned and scattered in confusion, leaving John and Felipe still ready to defend but unsure how to proceed. The dust cleared and a small band of British soldiers marched into the courtyard, bayonets and rifles raised.

An officer stepped forward and called for the soldiers to lower their weapons. He approached Felipe and John carefully, eyeing the pistol in John’s hand.

“We’re not here to take your supplies,” said the officer. He removed his helmet, revealing a shock of silver, shaggy hair. His kind eyes offset his oversized jaw. A set of well-kept teeth sparkled between his lips. “We received word there was a crazy Englishman here with a gun. That you?” he inquired gruffly, his eyes surveying John.

John lowered his gun. “Aye,” he said. “John Watson. Enlisted, Fifth regiment, Northumberland Fusiliers.” He tucked the gun into his back and saluted the officer. The officer saluted him in return.

“Captain Gregory Lestrade, commanding officer 33rd regiment, Earl of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, special unit,” he answered. He approached the two men, who were still standing in shock at their good fortune.

“What brings you to Tangier?” Felipe asked suspiciously.

“I am searching for someone. A man named Holmes.”

John squinted up at Captain Lestrade. “Sherlock Holmes?”

Lestrade’s face lit up. “Aye,” he said, nodding his head. “You know him?”

“Maybe. What’s your business with him?” John demanded.

“We served together,” answered Lestrade. “He stopped answering my letters. Haven’t heard from him in almost a year. When I received word he was in Tangier, I briefly diverted my regiment’s route back to England in order to inquire on his whereabouts.”

John lowered his head. Felipe, realizing his hesitation, responded to the officer.

“He is near the village right outside the wall,” said Felipe. “I’ll take you to him.”

John grabbed onto the Spaniard’s arm.

“No, I will,” he said, turning to Lestrade. “First, come inside. Let your men rest and eat.”

John led the way into the hospital, but once inside the ward, Ahad was immediately at his side.

“Dr. Watson, Masala has worsened,” he said worriedly. “Come see.”

John left Lestrade and his men with Felipe as he examined Masala, a young woman from the village that also happened to be Ahad’s betrothed. He looked up at the young Moroccon.

“Prep her for surgery. I’ll meet you at the table.”

John found Lestrade and Felipe quietly talking in the sitting room.

“I’ve got surgery. It can’t wait.”

Lestrade nodded. “We’ll find our way. It’s not far.”

The officer gave John a sympathetic look. He knew Felipe had told him the situation. It was just as well. John knew if he walked in and found Sherlock dead, he probably couldn’t bear to go on.

Best he stay put. At least here, he had a chance at saving a life.  
.

\---------------

The rain began to fall right as Lestrade and and two of his men departed from the hospital. Felipe warned them not to dally but to return immediately due to the flash flooding. They set off into the city towards the gates, their khaki uniforms already soaked by the time they’d reached the grand mosque.

John operated on Masala for hours, but she was too far gone. She died on the table. Ahad was devastated. John watched him wander out in a daze towards the front entrance. He found him moments later on his knees, his face to the sky, fat droplets of rain beating relentlessly on his forehead. He pulled him back inside and sat with him in the hallway as he cried his heart out. John cried too.

The young Muslim finally passed out from exhaustion. John helped him into the sitting room and laid him on the cot, covering him up.  
He closed the door and wandered back out into the ward. The hard rain made the room dark for the middle of the day, and the constant pouring on the roof seemed to lull everyone into a sort of trance. It was calm and peaceful, and everyone felt a bit safer with the British soldiers milling about.

He felt a hand on the back of his neck. Felipe whispered in his ear:

“Follow me.”

He followed the Spaniard into the tiny hallway that led to the front entrance. He pulled back a curtain and revealed a small door, which he opened. Inside was a wooden ladder. John followed Felipe up the ladder, the sound of the pouring rain becoming louder the higher they climbed. When they reached the top, Felipe helped John onto a covered ledge that was hidden behind strategically placed horseshoe-shaped pillars along the side of the building. Thankfully the wind blew the rain away from the exposed opening, cooling the ledge but leaving it dry.

The roar from the rain on the roof was so loud it was difficult to hear each other talk. John walked to the edge and looked out. He let the rain pour onto his hand, wiping the back of his neck with the cool water. He removed his boots and stuck his feet out, letting the rain pummel his toes. For a moment, he forgot where he was and laid back onto the ledge, his arms spread out at his sides.

Felipe laid down next to him, naked. He pulled John close and kissed him while unbuttoning his shirt. He slipped his trousers off and pulled him on top of him. They explored and melded together, being as loud as they wanted since no one could hear them anyway.

Felipe’s calloused hands massaged John’s small, soft behind. His fingers slipped in along his cleft as John encouraged him to keep going, grinding himself into Felipe’s muscled abdomen. Felipe produced salve from his trouser pocket and generously lathered John’s behind as he kissed him. His finger slipped inside him easily as John sighed into his lips.

The Spaniard worked him slowly and tenderly, opening John one tiny movement at a time. He encourage John to suck him as he kept his fingers buried deep, every moment of pleasure relaxing the young surgeon just a little more until he was writhing with sweat and anticipation. He begged Felipe to enter him, but Felipe still refused. The Spaniard leaned down and sucked him lazily, his fingers holding him open and twisting ever so slightly, searching for that special place inside of him. John whined with pleasure as he was stimulated, amazed he had yet to come from all of Felipe’s skilled caresses.

Felipe finally held John’s hips and slowly guided himself into his soft, slicked body. John welcomed him with a gasp, the absence of pain a surprise and then pure pleasure as the Spaniard began to move inside of him. His careful thrusts were aided briefly by a stroking hand, then Felipe leaned forward and pressed his muscled abdomen onto the younger man’s thickening length. He held John’s small, compact body against his wide chest and powerful hips, kissing his lips as his behind moved up and down in a gentle, relentless rhythm. John moaned in pleasure as he wrapped his short, thick legs around the Spaniard’s curved spine, tilting his bottom up to eagerly receive him.

John had never felt so vulnerable, yet so powerful and desired. He felt safe and protected in Felipe’s arms. He knew he would always be safe with him. He would take care of him and love him. The day he’d met the Spaniard he’d fallen head over heels. Dr. Felipe Canales was the living, breathing example of everything John had ever desired.

Felipe breathed heavily into John’s ear. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he whispered.

John gripped Felipe’s biceps as the doctor thrusted deeply inside of him, his flat stomach rubbing against his cock over and over again. He titled his small arse up higher into the Spaniard's rolling thighs, and was struck by patterns of rainbows behind his shut eyelids as he blissfully writhed and released himself. His body spasmed with pleasure both inside and outside, his body wracked with an ecstasy he’d never known before. As he felt his slickness pour out onto his belly, he could hear Felipe’s breath momentarily stop as warmth filled him from the inside.

Suddenly, John’s head was filled with Sherlock’s words.

_I gave you this life._

The words had echoed in John’s head for weeks.

 _I gave you this life._..meaning he could take it away again. Sherlock knew that’s what John feared the most; returning to a life in service.

But the hollow threat had backfired. Sherlock hadn’t known about the Spaniard. Dr. Felipe Canales was everything John ever wanted to be and more.

And as John came back down to reality, his body completely and utterly satiated, he discovered with shocking clarity that he was not in love with Felipe Canales the man, but with the life the Spaniard led.

The man he _was_ in love with he’d left desperate and dying.

It made him sick.

\-------------

The rain had relented to the point it was only a mist.

Felipe held John in his arms as he slept, his breath even and deep.

John laid there, wide awake, guilt-ridden and terrified. Ahad’s cries of grief played over and over in his mind.

They should have been back by now.

He heard the door slam shut below them. Then voices.

John was on his feet in a flash, dressing and down the ladder within seconds.

He found Lestrade standing in the middle of the ward, water streaming off his helmet, looking as if he’d almost drowned.

In his arms he held an emaciated, shockingly pale, yet breathing, Sherlock Holmes.


	3. England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Lestrade finds Sherlock Holmes alive. John is torn between his two lovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completed fic. Will post last two chapters June 12.

John was momentarily stunned at the sight of Captain Lestrade barely holding on to an unconscious Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade looked as if he were ready to collapse. John approached the officer and gathered Sherlock into his arms.

“Dr. Watson -” said Lestrade.

“Give him over.”

“Where-”

“ _Give him to me!_ ”

John’s outburst made the soldiers stop and turn. The ward went silent. Felipe appeared at the end of the hall.

Lestrade let go of the unconscious man and placed him in the surgeon’s arms. John immediately headed out into the courtyard that connected the ward with the rest of the old mission building. He walked quickly but carefully, aware of Sherlock’s head and limbs that hung limply over his forearms. He reached his quarters, a tiny space big enough for a small cot and side table. He laid the ailing nobleman on his bed.

He dropped to his knees and held Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“Sherlock,” he said, still catching his breath. “Can you hear me?”

He didn’t stir, his breath shallow and uneven.

John could feel the fever radiating from his pale body as he pulled off his shirt to reveal the typical typhoid rash on his abdomen. He undressed him and briefly massaged his wet, freezing feet between his hands. He whispered words of encouragement as he did so, assuring his ailing patient that he was now safe.

He ran back to the ward, weaving through the patient-filled cots to his surgical unit. He tore open the cabinets, searching for medicine.

“Ahad,” he shouted. “Ahad!”

When the young Muslim didn't respond, John threw open the sitting room door and stormed inside. Ahad sat up, bleary eyed and confused.

“Ahad,” John growled. “Where’s the rest of the bloody quinine?”

Felipe and Captain Lestrade appeared in the doorway.

“There’s more in my quarters,” said Felipe. “Ahad, please go fetch it.”

Ahad set off to find the medicine as John ignored and pushed his way through the two men. He picked up a medical bag and headed back out across the courtyard.

Felipe followed him outside.

“John.”

The young surgeon continued to ignore him.

“John!”

John finally stopped in the middle of the courtyard and whipped around, a look of desperate determination on his face. He was out of breath and sweating, his eyes glistening in the mist, emotional fragility etched into every muscle and tendon of his small, compact body.

As Felipe approached him, John began shaking his head.

“Felipe, no…”

“Tell me what you need,” Felipe said quietly, stopping just shy of contact. His large hands tenderly brushed the sides of John’s arms.

John bit his trembling lip and looked away, a mixture of guilt and gratitude washing over him. He took a deep a breath and managed to meet Felipe’s gaze.

“He needs broth,” he finally said, his voice strained.

Felipe nodded.

“I’ll get it for him.”

John blinked, an errant tear escaping down his cheek that he quickly wiped away. He sniffed and coughed and stood up straight, managing a brief nod.

He turned and continued across the courtyard. Felipe had no choice but to let him walk away.

\---------------

_Case 221: S. Holmes, male, age 27 with remittent fever and typhoid fully developed. Had a severe diarrhea and vomiting. Supplied Quinine and Aromatic Sulph. Acid every three hours, and for diarrhea Gallic acid, Bismuth and Aromatic powder. Besides cold compress to head, and brandy, beef tea, pigeon broth and milk were ordered. No change in condition. JHW_

It was in the middle of the day when Captain Lestrade appeared in the doorway. He knocked on the open door.

“Dr. Watson, we need to talk.”

John stood up and stiffly motioned for him to step out into the hallway. The younger man rubbed the back of his neck as he looked up at the officer with bleary eyes.

“What is it?” he said wearily.

Lestrade pulled a torn piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to the surgeon.

John read it with a furrowed brow.

_Opioid allergy._

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

Lestrade nodded. “Jean Pierre. He said Sherlock showed up at the schoolhouse a few days ago. He passed out in the doorway with this pinned to his collar.”

John closed his eyes and sighed, crumpling the note in his fist.

“What does it mean?”

John licked his lips and looked up at the officer. “Sherlock was injecting himself with morphine and cocaine. He must have been trying to dry out on his own when he became infected.”

Lestrade’s jaw clenched with concern.

“I wouldn’t tell just anyone this, Dr. Watson, but you seem to care for him quite a bit,” said the officer. “How much do you know about what transpired in Transvaal?”

John shook his head. “He wouldn’t talk about it. But he’s not the same. He couldn’t sleep, wouldn't eat, just drank all the time. The morphine and cocaine started maybe a few months ago.” John hesitated, but then asked the question he’d been dying to ask the officer since he appeared the day before. “Were you with him, down there?”

Lestrade nodded. He ran his fingers through his shock of silver hair.

“Holmes has a history of spying for the British government.”

“He told me. Turkmen during the Afghan war.”

Lestrade appeared relieved the young man already knew. It seemed to help him continue with the story.

“We’d received reports that the bloody Boers had found a huge deposit of ore and were claiming it for themselves. Our government of course wanted the gold, but didn’t want to risk another skirmish. We placed Holmes just outside of Pretoria in one of the farming villages known to be hostile toward our presence in the area,” he said grimly. “Holmes managed to convince a local prominent family that he was a farmer whose land had been taken away by the British government. This family vouched for him around town and eventually gave him access to the mining operation.”

John glanced back at Sherlock sleeping fitfully in the tiny cot, his forehead glistening with sweat. His heart ached in his chest.

“What went wrong?”

Lestrade pursed his lips. “I still don’t know who, but someone figured him out. We managed - barely- to get Holmes to safety, but the family…”

“What?” asked John.

“In retaliation, the family was tortured and killed,” he said sadly. “Including children.”

John sucked in a breath. “My God,” he whispered. He again glanced back at Sherlock. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Guilt?” Lestrade answered. “Shame? Holmes prides himself on his ability to observe others. He missed something this time. The consequences were for him - for anyone really - unbearable.”

“So why didn’t you help him?” asked John. “You just sent him on his way? Left him to deal with this on his own?”

“I immediately pulled him out,” said Lestrade defensively. “But you know how bloody stubborn he can be. He wouldn’t listen to anyone, he drank all the time, wouldn’t leave his quarters unless it was to harass and throw things at me. Then one day he was just gone.” Lestrade sighed, defeated. “I sent multiple letters trying to find his whereabouts. I finally wrote to his brother through Parliament, who told me he had been ill but was convalescing in Tangier. With his valet.”

Lestrade gave John a knowing look. John blushed and looked away.

A long silence hung in the humid air between them.

“Thank God for you,” John finally said. “You saved him.”

“He’s going to be alright then?” Lestrade asked delicately.

John nodded, his eyes fierce with resolve. “If I have anything to do with it, he will.”

\---------------

Days blurred together as the sky cleared. The abnormal weather pattern finally dissipated, the wind pushing the rain clouds and blowing them south where they belonged. The city’s ancient aqueduct, which had eventually been closed off by the locals, was now, thanks to the rains, filled with fresh water. Through Felipe’s sanitation recommendations, the water source was deemed safe to drink again. Patients began to recover and go home. It was a relief to see the floor of the ward again, and then, an empty cot or two appeared. Even the diplomats began to return, though they had yet to show their faces in Dr. Canales’s medical school.

Sherlock had not regained consciousness, but his fever had broken early one morning, soaking the sheets and giving John hope. John hadn’t left his side, to the point he had neglected all of his other duties. Lestrade stopped by often to check on them both.

It was a Sunday morning when he knocked on the open door. John looked up to see the officer in full uniform, his hat tucked under his arm.

“I can’t delay any longer,” he said, a bit of regret in his voice. “My men have indulged me, but now it’s time we head home.”

“His fever’s gone,” said John. “You should leave knowing he should recover. I just wish he’d bloody wake up.”

“I know he’s in good hands,” said Lestrade kindly. He raised his hand to his forehead in a salute.

John stood up and saluted in return.

\--------------------

John stepped out to watch the Captain Lestrade and his soldiers march away. He realized after they’d disappeared from eyesight that Felipe was not among the crowd. He went back inside and ducked behind the curtain. He crawled up the ladder pulled himself up onto the covered ledge.

Felipe sat with his back up against one of the pillars, looking out across the city. The sun was bright but the ledge was shaded and cool. Felipe’s white shirt whipped in the wind, exposing his broad chest in patches. His fingers played with his full lips as he appeared lost in thought.

John sat down quietly beside him.

“Lestrade left with his men,” he said.

The Spaniard didn’t answer.

“I heard your friend’s fever broke.”

“His name is Sherlock.”

Felipe turned around, his kind, brown eyes full of pain and longing. John felt his own heart thump in his chest as he licked his lips.

They both leaned in, lips meeting in a tender, desperate kiss. Felipe cradled the younger man’s face and held him close, breathing him in. His tongue slid against John’s as he gently maneuvered him onto his back.

John reveled in the feel of Felipe’s mouth on his neck, the weight of him on his abdomen. He knew the pleasure Felipe could easily bring to his neglected body. He couldn’t deny that he ached for it.

He finally placed his hands against his broad chest and lightly pushed back, just enough for the Spaniard to slow his advances.

“Mmm?” Felipe murmured, leaning down once more to capture the young man’s lips in a full, sensuous kiss.

“Felipe,” whispered John as he pushed back a little more.

Felipe stopped and gazed at John with a furrowed brow. His expression saddened as he ran his fingers through John’s blond hair.

“John,” he whispered. “I offer everything I have to you. You already have my heart. This school, it can be ours, yours and mine.”

John felt his chest swell with emotion. Never had someone offered him so much. It rendered him speechless.

“Your friend -” Felipe’s eyes fluttered shut as he corrected himself. “Sherlock...he can stay too. We will take care of him together. Keep him safe.”

John reached up to brush his knuckles against the Spaniard’s stubbled cheek. “Felipe,” he said softly. “Your offer is more than I deserve.”

“John-”

“Felipe,” John said. “I love him.”

Felipe’s face fell. He sat up onto his heels.

“I’m sorry,” whispered John.

Felipe stood up. He held out his hand and helped the young surgeon to his feet.

He squeezed John’s hand gently.

“As am I,” he replied.

He turned and walked away.

  
\------------------

Later that day, like he had done a dozen times before, John sat down next to Sherlock on the small cot. He pressed his palm to a pale forehead.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “Please wake up. Come back to me.”

And by some miracle, this time, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.

He looked up at John. Recognition flooded his beautiful, crystal eyes, softening into a gentle repose. He managed a small smile.

A loud sob escaped from deep within John’s chest. He cleared his throat in embarrassment, but he couldn't stop the emotion bubbling up to the surface. He struggled and took a deep breath, then tried to speak, but nothing came out. The tears welled up in his eyes and he immediately looked up to keep them from spilling out.

Sherlock slid his hand across the covers and brushed his fingers against John’s trembling knuckles.

John grabbed his slender, pale hand into both of his and brought it to his lips, kissing it over and over.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice gruff and weak.

“Sherlock,” John said breathlessly as he lost his composure. He blinked and the tears streamed down his cheeks. He held Sherlock’s delicate wrist to his lips and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“How ‘bout a little broth?” he said, in an attempt to compose himself.

Sherlock nodded. John helped him sit up and held the bowl to his lips. He drank it down without hesitation. John reached up and tenderly stroked the back of his head. Sherlock sighed in pleasure, dropping his head to rest on John’s shoulder.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“The medical school in Tangier,” said John softly, as he ran his fingers through wild, dark curls. “Captain Lestrade found you at the village school and brought you here.”

“Lestrade is here?”

“Aye, he was. He came looking for you. But he promised his men they would see home soon. They left this morning.”

A brief silence passed between them. Both men could feel the emotions of the past fighting to get inside their moment of happiness. Sherlock sat up weakly and laid back against the cold stone wall.

“John, I want to go home,” he said pathetically.

John comforted him, stroking his cheek and shushing him softly.

“Of course,” he said. “You need to get a little stronger for the journey but it won’t be long now. You’re on the mend. You’re going to fine.”

Sherlock nodded, fat tears dropping from his translucent eyes and down his cheeks. Instead of calming him, John’s words seemed to cause him more distress. His body withered and shrank down into itself.

“Hey,” said John. “I’m talking weeks, not months yeah?”

Sherlock was quickly disappearing inside himself. John didn’t understand what was happening. On the inside he began to panic. On the outside, he pulled Sherlock into his arms and embraced him.

“As soon as I think you handle the journey, we’ll go home, yeah? But your body needs time to heal,” he whispered. He let him go and cradled his face in his palms. “Otherwise you might get sick again.”

“You’ll come with me?”

“Of course I’ll come with you,” said John adamantly. “Unless-”

Sherlock shook his head feebly. “Stop.” 

He suddenly fell forward onto John, his atrophied and malnourished body temporarily shutting down. John propped him back up and held him.

“It’s alright, take your time,” said John.

Sherlock smiled at John’s kindness. He drew in a shaky breath and released it, briefly closing his eyes to collect his thoughts.

“For the past year, I’ve been running from something I did. Or rather, something that I failed to do,” he said weakly. He laid his head back against the stone wall to rest for a moment before he continued. “Instead of facing this...mistake...I let it manifest itself in ways that completely destroyed my life, and it hurt the people that I love most in this world.”

He managed to look up at John with tired, hopeful eyes.

“I shall endeavor to rebuild my life. I’m content to do so without morphine, or cocaine, or brandy. I do not wish, however, to do it without you.”

John, moved by Sherlock’s words, gathered his hands into his and squeezed.

“I told you once that ‘I gave you this life’,” he continued. “I regretted saying it the moment the words left my mouth, not merely because it’s a reprehensible thing to say, but because it’s simply not true.” He closed his eyes. “The moment you, John Watson, stepped foot into Lands End my world became full of possibility. I didn’t dread getting up in the morning because you would be there, brave and wise and true, keeping me right.” Sherlock opened his eyes. “As soon as you left that fateful day, I realized what I had done.”

John shook his head. “I should have never left,” he said. “You were ill. You needed me.”

“John-”

The young surgeon leaned forward and kissed him sweetly.

“Enough talking,” he said softly, his kisses soft and lingering on Sherlock’s full, chapped lips. “You need rest.”

Sherlock nodded and kissed him back tenderly. John helped him lie back down into the rickety old cot and covered him up.

He stroked his hair until the young nobleman fell asleep.

\-------------------

The weather was dry and glorious and the sun shone brightly for the next two weeks. Sherlock’s progression to health was slow but steady. John hired men to pack up the house in the village for shipment back to Cornwall. Both men were determined to return to England as soon as humanly possible.

Their final day in Tangier finally came, and John woke up early to say his goodbyes to the students and Felipe. He found Ahad in the surgical unit scrubbing down the table. Most of the patients had been sent home, and the young Moroccan was finally looking rested again.

“We’re off,” said John. “Just came to bid you farewell.”

John stuck out his palm and Ahad took it.

“You’re a fine surgeon, Ahad. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

Ahad smiled. “It has been an honor to learn from you, Dr. Watson.”

“Have you seen Dr. Canales? Can’t seem to locate him.”

Ahad looked confused. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Doctor Canales left for Spain yesterday,” said Ahad.

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. But he left this.”

Ahad then reached behind him and handed John the medical bag he’d arrived with two months before. It was the one from Felipe’s apothecary.

“That’s not mine,” said John.

Ahad pushed it into his arms.

“He wanted you to have it,” he said simply. “Peace be with you, Dr. Watson.”

Ahad nodded his head in respect and left John Watson alone in the unit. Sadness overwhelmed him at the thought of never seeing Felipe again. Though didn’t love the Spaniard in the way he loved Sherlock, the intense admiration and respect he felt for him had, for a time, almost felt the same.

It would be a lie to say he had not been tempted to take Felipe's offer. John felt nothing but dread at the thought of returning home. He wasn’t sure how he was going to bear it. It was going to be the greatest challenge of his life, returning to service after tasting the life he’d always wanted.

He would find a way. He would do it for Sherlock.

He’d do anything for Sherlock Holmes.

\--------------------

Upon seeing the lush green of England, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. The air was cooler and humid and felt glorious against his weathered, sun-kissed skin. Once docked and on shore, he resisted the urge to kiss the ground. John loaded their luggage onto the carriage and they left for Cornwall.

John had become increasingly silent and melancholy the closer they got toCornwall. As they approached the turn off to Lands End, John knocked on the ceiling of the carriage to signal for the driver to stop. He gathered his medical bag and hat in his hands.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock.

“Getting out,” he answered. “A valet can’t bloody well be caught riding inside a carriage with his lordship. People will talk.”

The carriage stopped moving just as John opened the door. Sherlock jumped up and pulled it shut.

“It’s not necessary,” said Sherlock.

“Actually, it is necessary,” snapped John.

“John -”

“ _What_?”

“If you would just listen for a moment!”

John crossed his arms and sighed heavily, but sat back down.

Sherlock’s expression went from excitement to guilt-ridden. His eyelids fluttered as he began to speak.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I thought it a surprise, but now I realize I didn’t quite think it through…”

John forced himself not to roll his eyes in frustration.

“While I was convalescing in Tangier, Dr. Canales came to see me.”

John stopped breathing, the color draining from his face.

“What - “ said John, clearing his throat. “What did you two talk about?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed knowingly, but his expression remained kind.

“Dr. Canales wished to express to me how valuable your skills as a surgeon and physician were to him during the outbreak,” said Sherlock. “He also mentioned that he had made you an offer to stay and teach at his school. He said you turned him down, that your loyalty was to me.”

John unconsciously gripped his medical bag. He had no idea how to respond.

“He said it would be a shame for your talent and training to go to waste,” said Sherlock. “I happen to agree with him.”

He leaned forward and placed his hand on John’s knee.

“I see now that throughout my life I have only been concerned with maintaining my own happiness,” he said. “In doing so I have done you a grave disservice. You can’t return to a life of a valet. I never expected you to. But to see you were willing to do so for me, humbles me.” Sherlock reached out his hand. John took it.

“I love you,” said Sherlock. “I will always love you. But I must hereby terminate your employment immediately.”

“No,” whispered John, his head spinning. “Sherlock, I’ll acclimate. Please don’t do this…”

“You misunderstand,” replied Sherlock. “I sent Mycroft a telegram letting him in on your situation. He called in some favors.” Sherlock paused. “You’ve been appointed a two-year surgical fellowship in Edinburgh starting in the new year.”

John blinked. He didn’t say anything.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

John shook his head. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips until he was beaming ear to ear. Sherlock smiled back, the edge of his lip catching on his teeth. John’s heart ached from fullness as he watched Sherlock’s crooked smile fill his cheeks and light up his beautiful crystal eyes.

“Yes, he replied. “Now. Now I’m alright.”

Sherlock reached up and hit the ceiling twice with his fist. The carriage jerked and took off, heading up the lane to Lands End, to home.

 

 

 

 


	4. Lands End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John reunite in the Biblical sense (finally).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for only one chapter. I've been ill and decided to rework something in the final part. To post asap

When the carriage pulled up to the front of Lands End, John dared to glance out the side window to see all of servants lined up to greet them. His heart began beating wildly in his chest as he fought the urge to hide out until the carriage circled around to the side entrance.

Sherlock leaned forward and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“It will be alright,” he said in a low voice. “Everyone knows. It won't be a shock.”

John nodded but still looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. The door to the carriage swung open, and Sherlock gave him an encouraging look as he stepped out onto the grounds. John took a deep breath and followed, holding his medical bag and hat in front of him as if some sort of protection. He followed Sherlock as they made their way up the drive. He looked around timidly and spotted Dimmock, Molly and Anderson. Molly smiled at him. John nodded to her gratefully and smiled back.

“Welcome home!” exclaimed Irene, giving Sherlock a quick and almost imperceptible peck on the cheek. She pushed him aside and extended her hand out to John. “Dr. Watson, it is good to see you. I hope your journey was a pleasant one?”

John, quite shocked at being addressed so formally, took her ladyship’s hand and kissed it. “Yes m’lady,” he answered, his voice a bit shaky. “I am humbled and grateful for your hospitality.”

“Nonsense,” said Irene. “You will always be welcome here.”

“I second my wife’s sentiment,” said Mycroft. “Dr. Watson, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He held out his hand. John shook it.

“M’lord,” said John.

“I’m standing right here, brother mine,” said a rather annoyed Sherlock.

“So you are,” said Mycroft, turning to the pale and rather thin man at his side. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, not that you care.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Of course I care, baby brother. I sent an entire regiment to ensure your safety, didn’t I?”

“Oh, don’t pretend that was you,” answered Sherlock with a scowl. In a huff he glided inside his ancestral home. John Watson gingerly followed behind him, hat and medical bag in hand.

Sherlock walked into the library and immediately poured himself a drink. He took one look at it and placed it back down onto the bar.

“Mr. Roberts,” he said through gritted teeth. “Could I trouble you for some tea?”

“Of course m’lord,” said Mr. Roberts. The old butler nodded his head in respect. “And if I may say so, it’s good to have you home.”

Sherlock grinned at the old man before turning to rifle through old newspapers on the Earl’s desk.

John wandered uncomfortably to the front of the room near the fireplace. Dimmock quietly maneuvered up to his side.

“Dr. Watson,” he said. “May I take your things taken up to your room?”

“What's that?” said John, surprised. “Yes, yes of course Mr. Dimmock. I appreciate it, thank you.”

Dimmock gave him a quick wink as he hurried off with his hat and bag. Irene wandered in along with Mycroft.

“Dr. Watson, do sit!’ said Irene. “We want to hear about your time in Morocco. I heard you successfully fought off a terrible outbreak enteric fever.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Embellish at will, John. Irene loves a good tragedy. She eats it up like creamed cornucopias at Christmas.”

Irene glared at him. “I apologize for my brother-in-law, Doctor. He doesn’t share the spotlight well,” she said, turning to Sherlock. “What did you accomplish in Morocco, besides drink brandy and catch an infection?”

John listened in amusement as the two volleyed a few more insults back and forth. Mr. Roberts brought in the tea and poured Sherlock a cup. Sherlock dropped in three sugar cubes and leaned against the bar.

He suddenly turned exceedingly pale and slid off the bar. John jumped up and kept him from falling.

“Easy now,”he said, bracing him against his shoulder and taking the teacup from his hand. Mycroft stood up to help, but John insisted he had him. He sat him down on the sofa next to Irene.

“Sherlock, time to rest,” he murmured.

John’s cheeks turned bright red when he realized his mistake. He dared to look over at Irene and Mycroft, expecting to see shock and rebuke in their expressions.

But instead, he found no reaction to his words. He had called the Earl of Cornwall’s brother by his Christian name and no one had noticed. In fact, everyone seemed pleased he was there, taking an interest in his well-being.

\-------------

John helped Sherlock up the grand staircase to his old room. The servants had delivered his things and had laid out a fresh nightshirt and robe. Dimmock appeared with the nobleman’s slippers.

“M’lord, Dr. Watson, may I be of service?” he said, placing the slippers neatly at the side of the bed.

“No, Mr. Dimmock,” said Sherlock weakly. “I think we’ve got it from here.”

Dimmock left the room, but John followed him out into the hallway.

“Dimmock!” he whispered.

The footman turned around. “Yes, Dr. Watson?”

John wanted to object to the formality, but didn’t. Instead, he held out his hand. Dimmock took it. The two men shared a steady, firm handshake.

“It’s good to see you,” said John.

“You too.”

“I hope it’d be alright if I came down later, to say hello to everyone?”

“Of course! Everyone is anxious to hear about your trip.”

An awkward beat passed between the two gentleman

“So am I kipping with you for the next few weeks, or has some younger, better looking bloke taken my place?”

Dimmock gave him a strange look.

“Of course not, sir,” he said. “Your room is here, next to Lord Sherlock’s.”

He opened the door to a room John had only been in a few times before. It was decorated with different shades of blue and gold trim. A large four post bed faced the east side, and large windows with expensive tapestries filled the adjacent wall.

John stared Dimmock down, looking for a tell in the servant’s demeanor. It had to be a joke.

“Her ladyship insisted you be next door since you are Lord Sherlock’s doctor,” said Dimmock, who motioned for John step inside.

Sure enough, John’s things were laid neatly next to the bed. Dimmock walked to the corner and opened a door that John assumed was a closet. “We’ve unlocked the adjoining doors so that you may move freely in and out of Lord Sherlock’s room while he convalesces.” Dimmock then bowed. “If I may be of service, please ring the bell.”

Dimmock closed the door behind him. John stood in the large, airy room, taking in the reality of the moment. He then stepped through the connecting doors and knocked. When Sherlock didn't answer, he walked on in.

Sherlock was curled up on the bed in his clothes, sound asleep. John pulled off the man's shoes.

“Rest well, m’lord,” John said softly as he smiled and pulled the blankets up under his chin.

\--------

John went downstairs and greeted the service staff. All were happy to see him with the exception of Anderson, who scowled and disappeared when he saw John enter.

Mrs. Hudson was especially concerned regarding Sherlock's health. She insisted on creating special menu for the ailing patient and called for hot water baths for the both of them. No one argued with her, including John. He felt a lot better after washing the weeks of travel of his poor, tired body. After a few hours, he woke Sherlock and helped him into the bath. He washed his hair, scrubbed him down and dried him off.

Sherlock sipped his Mrs. Hudson approved soup and soon after, began to nod off in front of the fire. John helped him up and over to the bed.

Sherlock, clad in his nightshirt, hair still damp from his bath, slid under the covers. John sat on the side of the bed, mixing up warm milk and spices that had just arrived from the kitchen. He gave it to Sherlock to drink.

“There,” said John quietly. “You’ll sleep properly tonight.” He smiled at the young nobleman who drank down the concoction with ease. He took the glass from him, set it on the nightstand and got up to leave.

“John,” said Sherlock.

“Yes?”

“Stay.”

John smiled at the simple command. Sherlock’s skin was rosy pink from the hot bath, his curls damp and frizzy against the pillow. His eyes sparkled at him in the dimly lit room. He looked angelic.

Sherlock sat up just a bit against the headboard. He reached up and pulled at the string on his nightshirt, letting it unravel in his fingertips.

John’s breath quickened as his eyes followed the elegant hand as it slid underneath the cloth, pressing an open palm onto a flushed chest, rubbing gently back and forth.

The doctor licked his lips. Against his better judgement, he climbed into the bed and straddled Sherlock’s thin hips. He gently pushed opened the collar of the nightshirt, exposing more of the blush along his chest, and pressed his lips to the smooth skin. He heard Sherlock’s breathing stop for a moment as his eager mouth worked its way up the long, graceful neck before him. His teeth gently tugged at a supple bottom lip before kissing a full, eager mouth.

Tiny little gasps escaped Sherlock’s throat as John pressed up against him. The ailing man’s head hit hard against the wooden headboard.

John silently admonished himself for getting carried away. He held Sherlock close.

“Here, lie down,” he murmured, cradling his head.

Sherlock slid down into the bed and settled into the crook of John's arm.

“I missed you,” Sherlock said softly.

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock tenderly on the forehead. “I thought of you every day, you know.”

Sherlock sighed softly into John's chest.

“Home,” he whispered.

John knew he didn't just mean England, or Cornwall, or Lands End.

Having Sherlock back in his arms felt like home to him, too.

\----------

_John found himself sitting naked on a soft sofa in a warm room filled with sunlight. A cool breeze blew white curtains hanging from the open windows. Sherlock, healthy and virile, stood nude before him. He turned to a long table next to them filled with cornucopias and cakes. Sherlock dipped one of his long fingers playfully into one of the whipped-cream confections. He sat down on John's lap._

_“Dessert?” he rumbled. John opened his mouth and Sherlock fed him the cream. John continued to suckle his finger long after he'd devoured the sweet milk._

_Sherlock smiled and rewarded John with a wet, filthy kiss. John slid his hands under his soft, ample bottom and played with his center. He was delighted to find it slick and ready for him._

_“You glorious angel,” he said breathlessly. “You're ready for me now, yeah?”_

_Sherlock pressed up on his tip toes and lifted his hips onto John's hard body. John slid into him with surprising ease. Sherlock locked arms around his neck as the young nobleman rode him slowly, up and down, up and down, up and down._

_John steadied the sweet thrusts by placing his small hands around his lover's slender waist. Sherlock felt so good, so warm, so right. His desire came to a head much too quickly._

_He held Sherlock in place as he buried himself deep, thrusting up into him once, twice, three times. Sherlock cried out as John filled him up again and again, just like the cornucopias on the dessert table nearby_ ….

 

John awoke from his dream to the immediate realization that he, like a 14 year old boy, had ejeculated in his sleep.

Embarrassed, he slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom to clean himself up.

He opened the bathroom door and found Sherlock sitting on the floor.

He had a needle in one hand and a vial in the other. His crystal eyes flashed with fear and shame as he watched John hover in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

Sherlock’s hands trembled.

“I don't know,” he said softly. His hand shook so violently he dropped the vial onto the floor. It landed with a clatter onto the tile.

“Where did you get that?”

“I nicked it before we left.”

“But why?”

“I don't know.”

John settled on his knees in front of him and carefully took the engorged syringe from his elegant fingers. He carefully inserted the liquid back into the bottle.

Sherlock slumped against the wall. His eyelids and face were swollen from crying. He looked incredibly fragile, and so, so exhausted.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he whispered.

“Maybe you can’t.”

Sherlock glanced up at him with surprise.

John held out his hand. Sherlock slowly reached out and took it. The good doctor helped him to his feet and as they made the short distance back to the bed.

John forgot about why he’d gotten up in the first place and slid in beside the young nobleman. There they lay, face to face, staring at each other in the moonlight, much like they had months ago when they first arrived in Tangier.

“Lestrade told me what happened in Transvaal,” John said softly.

Sherlock shut his eyes tightly.

“What did he tell you?”

“That you were pretending to be a farmer to gain access to an ore mine. That a family who attested to your character were murdered when your identity was discovered.”

When Sherlock opened his eyes, they were filled with pain.

“The family,” he said. “They didn’t just attest to others. They trusted me, invited me into their home, fed me. I played with their children -”

His throat closed as he choked back tears. Frustration flashed across his face as he grew impatient with himself and his inability to control his emotions.

John stroked his shoulder. “Don’t hold back. Let it out,” he said. “It’s just you and me.”

Sherlock nodded as a tear fell from the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek. He took a deep breath.

“I don't know what happened,” he said, his breath uneven. The harder he tried to hold in his sobs the easier they escaped from his lips. “I don’t make mistakes, John. I've went over it again and again. It makes no _sense_! How could someone have known?”

“I don't know,” said John. “Maybe it wasn't you that made a mistake. Maybe someone else recognized you?”

Sherlock ran his thumbs over his wet, red eyes. “When I was told my identity had been compromised, I refused to leave. Instead I tried to warn them,” he said. “Lestrade gave the order to have me restrained and taken back to base by force.”

“He probably saved your life,” John said. “You might have been killed too.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“I've often wished that had been my fate,” he whispered.

“Don’t say that,” John said sharply. He reached up and held Sherlock’s curly head in his hands. “Don’t. Not ever.”

Sherlock refused to look him in the eye as he broke down. He cried tears of regret and sadness. John held him close and comforted him the best he could.

“John,” he said weakly. “I saw them.”

John's brow furrowed in confusion. “Who did you see?”

Sherlock broke down again.

“I convinced Lestrade I wouldn't go back there. But I did. And I saw them.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

He looked up, appearing much older than his 27 years. He gazed at the ceiling as if seeking atonement.

“They tortured them, John,” he said through gritted teeth, his anger transparent even through his tears. “They enjoyed killing.”

Sherlocks face crumpled and twisted with rage.

“All of the evidence, the clues...I could see it, in my mind, exactly how it had transpired, like some horrible, disgusting play on a stage. Like the murderers had set it up just for me to see.” Sherlock covered his eyes with his hands. “I felt, I felt so...”

He curled forward defeated, burying his head in John’s shoulder.

“How did you feel?” asked John. “Tell me.”

“Responsible. I felt responsible. Like I killed them.”

Sherlock’s shoulders shook softly as John held him close.

“Sherlock, listen to me,” said John. “You have to stop thinking about it over and over again. It's the only way to heal. The only way to forgiveness.”

“I’ll never forgive them.”

“I’m not talking about them,” said John. “I'm talking about you.”

A tiny spark of understanding shimmered in Sherlock’s translucent eyes. His breathing slowed. “How?”

“First, we breath,” said John.

John held Sherlock against his chest and slowed his breaths. The young nobleman began to calm himself with each inhale and exhale.

“Then we practice on being in the present, even if it’s just for a moment,” John whispered, holding him even tighter.

Sherlock did as he was told. He settled down, burying his nose in John’s neck and breathing deeply.

John kissed him.

“We’ll get the through this, yeah?”

“If you don't let go.”

“Never again.”

\-------------------------

  
Only a fortnight had passed since their return when Dr. John Watson received a telegram from Edinburgh. The attending surgeon, Dr. Raibert MacDougal, wanted to inform the young doctor that his current fellow had left prematurely due to a family illness. He wanted John to start immediately.

John at first hid the telegram from Sherlock, but it was little use in trying to keep a secret from the man. By that afternoon, Sherlock had already sent a letter to the Alnwicks to request an extended visit.

“You’re not traveling, and that’s all there is to it,” said John, using his stern doctor voice.

“I’m staying with friends of the family. I’ve known Lady Katherine since I was a boy,” said Sherlock. “It’s not like I’ll be roughing it with you in Edinburgh.” He wrapped his long arms around his former valet. “I won't be without you again. It’s only a few hours train ride into the city. I’ll visit, you’ll visit, and then eventually, when I’m stronger and you’re settled…” Sherlock brushed his lips against John’s.

“I’m beginning to think we’ll never have a place of our own,” complained John.

Sherlock reached back and turned the key in the lock.

“We have a room of our own,” he rumbled, as he gently licked John’s wet, pink mouth. He unbuttoned John's shirt and threw it to the floor.

John grunted as their bodies brushed against each other. He quickly unbuttoned Sherlocks trousers and dropped to his knees.

“ _John_ ,” groaned Sherlock. His fingers slid through soft, flaxen hair as John directed his slender sex inside his warm, soft lips.

The room was silent but for the sounds of gentle sucking and pleasurable gasps. John’s fingers gently caressed his lover's behind as his mouth continued to work his front.

Sherlock moaned in frustration.

“I need you inside of me,” he begged. He pressed John’s hand deeper into his bottom.

John pulled off of his length, panting, his chest flush all the way to his abdomen. Sherlock could see the outline of the doctor’s arousal trying to burst out of his tight trousers.

“You're not ready,” said John. “You've been ill. I hurt you once. I won't be careless again.”

Sherlock pulled him up to his feet, letting his tongue explore the inside of John’s hot little mouth.

“Make me ready,” he pleaded softly. “We have all night. I want to be with you again.”

He reached down and gave John’s bursting trousers a long, generous stroke with his palm. “I know you are, too.”

John barely stifled a groan. He hesitated just for a moment, then grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head and pulled him down for a kiss. The men stripped off the rest of their clothing and fell into the bed, skin sliding against skin.

John held on to Sherlock as though he might disappear. His fingers played with dark curls as he gently suckled a scarlet dot onto his pale neck. They began to grind against each other, trading moans and gasps as they rocked back and forth.

“I love you,” John said breathlessly. “I’ve loved only you.”

He leaned forward and gently tugged at a pretty pink nipple with his teeth. Sherlock bucked into his abdomen.

“ _Ahhh, John_.”

John grinned and flipped Sherlock over onto his back. He buried his tongue in his sweet, swollen mouth. Perspiration caused curls to stick to his forehead. John reached up and pushed the hair out of his beautiful crystal eyes.

“I'll be right back,” John said, kissing him on the forehead and bounding off the bed. He found his medical bag and retrieved the salve from its pockets. For a fleeting moment he remembered the gentle caresses of the Spaniard. He forced the bittersweet memory aside and thought only of Sherlock, ready and waiting in bed just steps away.

“Come here,” he whispered against Sherlock's lips as slipped back into bed. He opened the jar and dipped his fingers inside.

Sherlock lifted his long leg up over John's thick thigh. John wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him snug against his chest. Slicked fingers began to dance along the younger man's behind.

John teased him lightly at first, but slowly and gently slipped his middle finger inside. Sherlock began to stroke himself as John varied his caresses.

“This alright?” asked John softly.

“Mmm, yes,” answered Sherlock. He pressed his bottom back against John's finger to show him. He moved his hips back and forth, obsessed with the feeling of his lover inside of him.

“Do you want to suck me?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly and slid down to John’s abdomen. He quickly realized that John had no intention of abandoning his place inside of him. In fact, he felt him explore and stretch him again ever so gently. Sherlock softly moaned at the sensation, then trembled with pleasure as John held his large length up to his lips.

John’s domination of his aching, sex-starved body ironically filled Sherlock with a sense of freedom.

He gave himself over. He was under Dr. Watson's strict orders, now.

He obediently licked John's smooth, firm member for ages before taking it between his plump lips. He felt incredibly sexy and powerful as he slid his tongue up and down his lover's cock, relishing the pressure fed to him by the John's thick fingers. He pushed his bottom back against John's hand and moaned.

“You want more, love?” whispered John. Sherlock responded with an impatient, muffled moan since his mouth was stretched full of John's cock. The vibration almost gave John reason to release, but he forced himself to hold back.

He stretched Sherlock just a little bit more, causing the young nobleman to pull off his length and groan into his abdomen. John gently picked him up and positioned him again onto his back. He expertly swallowed Sherlock’s poor, neglected length down to his testicles. Nails scratched at his biceps as Sherlock writhed underneath his body.

John sucked and licked him generously all over, until he removed his fingers to bury his tongue deep inside of him instead. Sherlock whimpered and gasped and lost his breath as his arms scrambled up to grip the headboard behind him. John lazily tasted him over and over again with a flat, pink tongue. His palms gently cupped his bottom.

His lips continued to lavish tender licks until Sherlock's body was supple and relaxed. John ended with a long, deep kiss, and tenderly placed his fingers back inside of him. He licked his way back to up to Sherlock’s sex laying red and leaking on his belly, and sucked him and sucked him until he was a writhing mess of glistening pecs and whimpering lips.

“ _Aah, John_ ,” he whispered. “Please-”

“Mmmm?” managed the young doctor, his lips so red it was hard to tell where Sherlock’s cock began and John’s lips ended.

“Please...make love to me.”

The command was so sweet and sincere that John immediately reached for the salve. He slid his lips off of Sherlock’s sex and slicked himself generously. He pulled Sherlock close and settled between his long, spread legs. He hiked his thighs up with his steady, hands and leaned forward.

“You beautiful man,” whispered John, kissing him on the lips. “I've got you.”

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes as John slid easily inside of him. John's lips played along a stubbled jaw as he held himself up by his arms. He carefully studied his lover's face for any trace of pain.

Sherlock looked up at him with relaxed, bright eyes. A smiled played at the corners of his mouth as he licked his lips.

“You’re amazing,” whispered John, as his hips pulsed gently back and forth.

Sherlock released the headboard and wrapped his arms around his lover’s solid back, palms eventually slipping down to hold onto a small, tight behind.

The strong, defined muscles in his hips flexed as John kept it slow and steady. His thighs rolled in a rhythm that made the bed squeak.

“ _Ooh, John_ ,” Sherlock moaned softly. He titled his arse up in response to the pleasure John was delivering.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” whispered John.

He stretched his lover's arms out over his head, his slicked fingers threading through Sherlock's. The young surgeon let his weight drop onto the nobleman’s sweaty body.

“ _Ooh_ -” panted Sherlock over and over.

John cut him off with his lips, devouring him with one deep, passionate kiss after another. He carefully thrusted inside Sherlock as far as he could go, and held himself there for a moment.

John’s eyes locked with Sherlock’s, the moment’s intimacy and passion overwhelming.

“I’m going to make you come now,” whispered John. “There’s nothing you can do about about it.”

Sherlock groaned and wrapped his long legs around his lover’s waist.

John slipped his hand in between their abdomens and gave Sherlock several slick tugs. He continued to stroke him as he made love to him, his hips grinding and trembling as he took his pleasure from the body pinned beneath him.

Sherlock reveled in the safety of John's presence on top and inside of him. He raised his head to take in his lips one last time before he fell apart and released into his lover's fist. Rainbows filled his vision as he bucked and writhed underneath him, reveling in his thrusts and caresses.

John smeared his lover's pale hip with a wet, slick hand as he fucked him, this time as hard and fast as he dared. A low whine escaped his throat as he felt himself lose control.  
  
He buried his nose and lips into Sherlock's long, graceful neck. He breathed in his scent and the smell of sex as he released into the man he loved more than anyone. He held onto him as he slowly came back down to reality, feeling vulnerable and protective at the same time. His lips lazily grazed Sherlock's cheeks, lips and forehead before he inadvertently collapsed on top of him.

He found the strength to roll onto his back, still panting from the unexpected exertion.

Sherlock looked completely debauched, not to mention sweaty, pink and satiated.

“Maybe traveling to Alnwick isn’t so bad an idea after all,” John said, catching his breath.

Sherlock grinned.

“I knew you’d come around,” he said. 


	5. Edinburgh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a fellow in Edinburgh but finds himself too close to home.

The University of Edinburgh School of Medicine’s teaching hospital was internationally renowned for its advancements in surgery. The operating theater was large and state of the art, with eight rows of benches looming over the surgical table below. John broke out in a cold sweat the first time he stepped into the room. Physicians from all over the world stared down at him from the benches, some bespectacled with notebooks, others scowling with critical eyes. He took several deep breaths and continue on, joining Dr.MacDougal in assisting with his first successful surgery as a fellow.

It was easy at first, keeping the promise that the two men had made to each other back in Land’s End. Alternating visits back and forth between Edinburgh and Alnwick proved to be too exhausting for John, so Sherlock often stayed in the spacious flat the family now owned near the hospital (real estate was always a prudent investment, according to the Earl). Both men were careful, however: the housekeeper’s appearances were scheduled instead of live-in, and if Sherlock were to arrive and leave during daylight hours he always used the back door. If John’s schedule permitted, they’d eat a cold supper together in the tiny kitchen and then move to the sitting room to sit by the fire. Sherlock smoked a pipe, finding it helped to calm his nerves, and John read the newspaper before dozing off in his chair.

Sherlock was still a bit sickly, too thin and pale, but the twinkle in his pale silver eyes had returned. John selfishly wanted the man with him in Edinburgh, but as usual Sherlock refused to listen to reason and often traveled by rail back to the Alnwick’s estate to call on Lady Katherine. His constant back and forth made a full recovery difficult, but the arrangement remained until mid-winter, when Mother Nature interceded.

An unusually intense winter storm hit in late February and due to the weather, stopped all trains in and out of Edinburgh. Communication grinded to halt for a week as telegraph lines were compromised by the ice and sleet that followed the snow. It was treachery for John to simply walk to the hospital; he couldn’t imagine what it was like on the railways. He wrote a letter a day to Sherlock in Alnwick, hoping it might be delivered by rider at some point before the ice thawed.

Time passed and finally, a piece of mail arrived at the flat. The prose was brief: Sherlock was heading to Land’s End as Mrs. Hudson was seriously ill. He would write when he arrived, he said. John, though disappointed, knew it would do Sherlock good to return home, where the mild winters and sunshine would aid in his rehabilitation.  


Weeks turned into a month, then two. Letters from Land’s End came less frequently, and the young surgeon often lacked the energy to pen his own to send. As his knowledge grew and his skills sharpened, the demand on his time and length of rotations increased. Most of his shifts were now a full day and night, and he had grown accustomed to sleeping in the cots in the back office.

Though thoroughly engrossed while working, when alone, John suffered. He missed Sherlock so much he physically ached for him. Every night, just before falling asleep, he’d fantasize that his nobleman was lying next to him. In his mind’s eye he’d run his hand over a slim hip, slide up a lithe torso (stopping to brush a hardened nipple or two) then stroke a long, elegant neck. His fingers would then massage a head of wild, curly hair as he pressed himself against a warm backside.

During these moments, John could almost smell the mix of pipe tobacco and spices, wool and tea, the scent that was distinctly Sherlock. The memory would calm the ache long enough to get him to sleep, but it returned every morning when he was fully awake.

Ten weeks to the day had passed since he’d seen Sherlock in the flesh, and a telegram arrived at the hospital. With Mrs. Hudson on the mend, Sherlock was finally back in Alnwick, staying with Lady Katherine.

The timing was, for once, fortuitous. It was John’s turn to take holiday, and Easter was upon them. John was absolutely giddy with excitement, knowing he would see Sherlock soon. His step had a bit more pep during rounds as he chatted with with colleagues and patients.

He was about to call it a day when one of the nurses informed him that Dr. MacDougal wished to see him right away.

John knocked softly on the open door to the chief surgeon’s office.

“John, do come in,” the doctor said, rubbing his eyes. “Have a seat.”

John reluctantly sat, trying to hide his agitation. He only had an hour to make the train to Alnwick, and he’d have to stop by the flat for his bag before heading there.

Dr. MacDougal cleared his throat and appeared stressed.  
“John, I need to call upon your good graces.”

John felt a bit of panic creep into his elated disposition, but kept his poker face in check.

“Yes, sir, how can I be of service?”

“I’ve just received word that my father is ill and I must go to Glasgow this night.”  


“I’m sorry to hear it,” replied John, concerned.

“Ah, thank you,” the man answered softly. “Our largest donor is hosting a dinner on Friday evening that I was planning to attend with my wife.”

The middle-aged man raked a calloused hand through his graying copper hair. “He expects a surgeon, so he can boast about the theater he funded. I respectfully request that you attend in my stead.”

“Me, sir?” John turned a bit red, flattered.

Dr. MacDougal managed a small smile. “You’re our best and brightest, John.” He leaned forward. “Will you grant me this favor? You may bring a guest, of course.”

“Yes, I’d be delighted,” said John. His mind had already drifted to thoughts of Sherlock in his white tie and dinner jacket.

“Here’s the address, and money for the train.” He handed an envelope over to the young surgeon. “I am grateful for your willingness. It will not be forgotten.”

John stood and shook his mentor’s hand. “I do hope your father recovers quickly. Safe travels, sir.” He shoved the note and money into his jacket pocket without so much as a glance.

As soon as he cleared the hospital doors, he took off towards the flat in a dead run.  
………….  
John cursed as he hurriedly packed his bag, grabbing a handful of day old bread and cheese to temper his rumbling stomach as he made his way out the door and down the stairs. He was momentarily bewildered at his luck as a cab pulled up and stopped right front of him. Maybe his luck was changing; maybe he was going to make that train after all!

Out of breath, he managed to speak to the driver as the door of the black cab swung open, barely noticing the impeccably dressed gentleman, wearing a top hat and long, black coat, stepping out of the cab. John quickly turned and hurried forward as a ray from the setting sun temporarily blurred his vision. John squinted and inadvertently bumped shoulders with the taller man passing him along the curb.

“Sorry, mate!” he said, stepping to the side. “Got a train to catch!” He stepped up into the cab just as a familiar, honeyed baritone responded immediately behind him.

“Has it been so long you’ve forgotten my face, dear Watson?”

John whipped around. Sherlock smiled devilishly back at the young surgeon, pleased with pulling off his planned surprise.

John realized his mouth was hanging open as he assessed the nobleman’s glowing appearance. Sherlock no longer showed signs of waning illness. He was the picture of health, vibrant and virile, his cheekbones prominent but full, his blunt jawline stout and hinting at a double chin as he smiled. His dark hair was slicked back from his head and he wore a blacktop hat with a matching longcoat. A colorful red handkerchief skimmed his front pocket.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “You look...”

He looked him up and down and licked his lips.

Sherlock held out a gloved hand. John gripped it tightly, his gaze heated.

“Come upstairs?” he managed.

“Mmm, yes,” rumbled Sherlock with a wink.

….

As soon as the door was shut and locked behind them, clothes began to hit the floor. Sherlock wore more layers but somehow managed to be fully nude before John, who was, to be fair, gawking longingly at his lover’s impressively thicker frame.

“Someone is feeling better,” mumbled John as he ran his fingertips over the the taller man’s bare chest.

Sherlock nipped gently at John’s bottom lip. “Much, much better, now.”

They kissed and necked and explored each other, finally collapsing onto the sofa. Sherlock rolled on top of John’s smaller, compact frame and gathered his stiff, large member alongside his own, wrapping his long fingers around them both. Quick breaths and low, satisfied groans followed as they both rutted madly against each other, lips crashing together over and over until one released, the other following immediately after.

Sherlock collapsed, his head buried in John’s neck as arms wrapped around him, holding him close, keeping him warm. The room was chilly, they realized rather quickly, so John lit the fireplace as Sherlock fetched robes from the bedroom. They lazily took turns holding each other, sipping scotch and not saying much, just resting and enjoying the feeling of being together again.

“I’m sure you’re pleased with yourself,” John finally said, well into his second scotch.

“Mm,” Sherlock mumbled. “Could you be more specific.”

John chuckled. “Your surprise. Well done.”

“Oh, that.” Sherlock rose up from the sofa and shuffled to the fire. He warmed his hands against the flames. “I was ready to snatch you away from that blasted hospital if you weren't here. Good thing you were. Would’ve caused quite a spectacle,” he teased.

“Oh, speaking of a spectacle…” John got up gingerly from the sofa and found his discarded jacket on the floor by the front door. He dug into his pocket for the note MacDougal had given him. He’d never bothered to find out where the dinner was being held. “I’m inviting you to a fancy dinner. Courtesy of Dr. MacDougal.”

“Sounds insufferable,” complained Sherlock. He stoked the fire with the poker.

“Oh it will be, I’m sure,” replied John, opening the note. “The hospital’s benefactor is throwing a dinner on Friday evening.”

“Easter weekend, how perfectly tactless of him.”

“MacDougal had to travel to Glasgow, so he chose me to attend in his place. He said I could bring a guest, so…”

John was silent for so long that Sherlock finally turned to see what was the matter.

“John?” Sherlock replaced the poker and shuffled toward him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

John, stricken, handed the paper to Sherlock.

“The benefactor, the dinner...it’s at Halidon Hall,” he said warily. “The Marquess of Berwick is the host.”

John’s eyes were wide with terror. “Sherlock, what am I to do?”

……..

It was deep into the early morning hours when John rolled over and opened his eyes. There, like his fantasy, was Sherlock, sleeping soundly on his side, his body caressed by moonlight and shadows. John reached forward and slid his hand over his hip, then up his torso. He dared to stop and finger a nipple, which hardened into a pebble in response.

Sherlock began to stir as John’s palm glided up to stroke his long elegant neck. John felt the smooth skin first with his fingers then with the back of his hand, appreciating the softness, the warmth.

Sherlock reached up and pulled John’s hand down over his heart. The men slid together, chest to back, and reveled in the heat.

“Have you slept at all?” Sherlock mumbled.

“What do you think?”

Sherlock rolled over and gave John a brief, reassuring kiss on the lips. John peered at him through the dark, barely able to trace the outline of his face.

A moment of silence passed between them, the sound of the city street wafting in through the closed windows of the flat.

John’s voice sounded small and young when he finally spoke.

“What should I do?”

Sherlock gently cupped his cheek. “What do you want to do?”

John huffed out a nervous laugh. “I don’t want to do anything involving that place.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I can do anything.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m frightened that I’ll be recognized, that bad memories will overwhelm me…”. His voice filled with shame. “I’m such a coward.”

Sherlock snorted loudly in response, momentarily snapping John out of his despair.

“You are nothing of the sort,” huffed Sherlock. “You’re the bravest, wisest man I’ve ever known.” He abruptly sat up, rubbing his fingers against his lips, thinking.

John felt his face go hot at the compliment. Tears unexpectedly welled up in his eyes, but he quickly wiped the wetness away before any drops could fall.

Of course, the brilliant man next to him, known for his amazing powers of observation, didn't notice.

“I know Albert Stuart died a few years ago. This would be his son, Matthew, who inherited the title,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve found that servants in a household, if departed while young, are rarely recognized by the employer. You may well go undetected by the Stuarts, with the exception of the Dowager Marchioness.”

John nodded his head. “Matthew was away so much with schooling that I doubt he’d recognize me.” John failed to mention that the attraction he’d felt for the heir in his youth had triggered the realization that he prefered boys to girls. “All the servants were like family to me. But yes, the dowager marchioness...she’s the one I’m worried about. ”

“Did you ever wonder why the marchioness dismissed you so unceremoniously?”

“She didn’t need a “why”.”

“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently. “But was your performance lacking? Did she give you a reason other than your mother’s passing?”

“No, nothing.”

Sherlock grinned. “I do know for the past two decades very tall footmen have been quite fashionable.”

John laughed in spite of his mood. He playfully pushed Sherlock down onto the bed and straddled him, pinning his long arms above his head.

“You are not helping,” he growled. He leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips. “I may have been short, but I was a model servant, beyond reproach,” he said. “She had nary a reason to dismiss me other than the contract she spoke of with my mother.”

“That’s what so unusual,” Sherlock remarked, suddenly serious. “You were an investment she summarily disposed of because of a contract? She knew you had nowhere to go. And to go the trouble of replacing you seems impractical for such a family that is known for its pragmatism.”

“Sherlock,” groaned John. “I don’t want to analyze this anymore.”

He laid back down next to Sherlock and sighed.

“You’ll go with me, then?”

“Of course, John. I’d never let you face this alone.”

Sherlock’s words were the tonic to his malady. What did it matter, after all? It would change nothing if he were recognized. He’d survived, made something of himself. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

And he had Sherlock Holmes on his side. If a situation were to arise, the dowager marchioness wouldn't know what hit her.

………

Friday's weather was clear and beautiful, much to John’s disappointment. He was secretly hoping for a spring snowstorm that would cancel the dinner, but it was not to be. The two men set out on the train and arrived at Halidon Hall by 5 o'clock. They entered through the main door, something John had never done out of uniform in all the years he’d lived there.

The butler, whom John did not recognize, introduced them as Dr. John Watson and The Honourable Sherlock Holmes. No one batted an eye, even as several members of the family greeted them. Servants wordlessly took their jackets and placed their hats in the hall. The parlour was eerily just as John remembered it. A young (and very tall) footman appeared with a silver tray and served them champagne in crystal flutes. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John and grinned as he took a glass from the tray.

Matthew Stuart, the marquess of Berwick, emerged from the group to greet the duo warmly.

“Dr. Watson, it’s a pleasure.” The marquess eagerly shook his hand. “I’m sorry for the circumstances that has kept Dr. MacDougal from attending, but I’m thrilled to meet one of his rising stars.”

“M’lord,” answered John, slightly bowing. “May I introduce my colleague and friend, The Honourable Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes! Mycroft’s younger brother!” John saw Sherlock stiffen a bit out of the corner of his eye. “How is the old devil?”

“Still old and devilishhh,” purred Sherlock tightly.

Matthew managed an uncomfortable laugh. He quickly turned the conversation back to John.

“You must tell me about the new procedures you are performing in my theater. Please, both of you join me in the library as we await dinner.”

They followed the marquess into another large, beautiful room with books piled high all around. All three settled in comfortable chairs with champagne in hand as Matthew led the conversation, peppering John with questions about the recent surgeries he’d performed. Sherlock used the time to take in the room, deducing the man’s hobbies, addictions, sleeping schedule and masturbatory habits.

Bored, he observed with great detail the items in the library. First edition novels, some scrolls, even family photographs. It was then while scanning the portraits that he made an incredible discovery...one that caused him to pause and reconsider everything he’d ever known about John Watson.

Fortuitously, at that same moment, the butler entered to informed the marquess that additional guest had arrived. He left the two men to their own devices in the library, and Sherlock quickly jumped up and was by John’s side in seconds.

“John, I need you to come with me, now.”

John looked at him strangely. “All right…” He threw back the rest of his drink and stood up, following John to the far corner of the room.

“Lookup. Third painting on the left, two over.”

John looked up, taking a glimpse of each painting until his eyes settled on one he’d seen before.

It was the camel painting, the one Mr. Frank had showed him as a child!

Sitting upon the camel was a spitting image of...himself?

John felt the blood drain from his face.

“What the bloody hell, Sherlock…”he whispered.

Just then, the marquess walked back into the library...with an older, slow moving dowager marchioness on his arm.

John steeled himself for the impending introductions and possible recognition. Sherlock had told him ad nauseum how much he didn’t resemble the John of years’ past, but he was still positive the name with a face would surely draw attention from the dowager.

But maybe, just maybe, he was overestimating his importance to the household. No one had recognized him thus far. Maybe the entire staff had moved on. It had been close to 15 years now, since he’d stepped foot in the house.

Sherlock gracefully took the the hand of dowager marchioness hand and kissed it. “It’s an honor, my lady. If I may be so bold, m’lord, let me introduce my friend and colleague Dr. Watson.”

“You’re brown as a nut!” exclaimed the old woman.

John’s heart leaped into his throat. She had recognized him! But no, wait...that’s not it. He had still yet to lighten much from his time in Tangier. So no, he hadn’t been recognized after all.

_Be still my beating heart._

“Dr. Watson has been in Tangier establishing a medical school,” said Sherlock proudly. “He is now a surgical fellow in Edinburgh under Dr. MacDougal.”

“Very impressive, Dr. Watson,” said the matriarch. “Glad you could join us. Have you ever been to this part of the England?”

“Oh yes, m’lady,” answered John shakily. “I’m very familiar with it.”

The old woman gave him a funny look for a moment. “Have we met before?” she asked.

Just then, the butler walked in to announce that dinner was served. The conversation was dropped as all the guests entered into the dining hall.

*********

John had found it difficult to eat and speak throughout dinner, and since he’d been called upon multiple times to comment on the conversation, his misery seemed never ending. The source of his torture was that Mr. Thomas had appeared out of nowhere to help serve the evening’s food. A huge lump had formed in John’s throat as he recognized the sweet, kind man who had helped look after him during his formative years. He kept looking for any sort of recognition in the older man’s eyes, but so far, he’d seen not even a hint of familiarity.

He also got his wish for torrential weather, but it came several hours too late. The rain and then large balls of hail began to fall just as the men had finished their brandy and cigars.

“I can’t let my guests venture out into this terrifying weather,” said Matthew. “Please, let us house you for the evening. It’s no trouble. Take the train in the morrow.”

John began to protest, but Sherlock cut him off.

“That is most kind of you, m’lord.” Sherlock secretly pinched the back of John’s biceps to get his attention. “We graciously accept your offer.”

******

The large number of dinner guests staying over made doubling up necessary. Once inside their quarters, John peeled out of his jacket and tie and shirt and began to hyperventilate.

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” he said, his chest expanding but no air filling his lungs. “I can’t...I just….”

Sherlock helped sit him down into a chair by the fire.

“It’s alright, John,” he said soothingly. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

John finally calmed himself, and suddenly looked exhausted.

“I think I need to go to bed.”

“You can’t. At least, not yet.” Sherlock opened John’s bag and pulled out his trousers and shirt.

“Get dressed. You owe an old friend a visit.”

*********

John carefully made his way down the servant stairwell. The same stairs he had traipsed up and down as a child, the same stairs his mother had tumbled down to meet her demise. When he peaked around the corner, he saw the servants at the table, some polishing silver, other darning socks, all talking animatedly about the day's gossip.

One of the maids caught sight of John and gasped. The rest turned and immediately stood up. The talking ceased.

John stepped forward and cleared his throat. He gazed at Mr. Thomas.

He must’ve stood there longer than he realized, because then Mr. Thomas said:

“Dr. Watson, may we be of service?”

John stared at him, waiting for a glimmer of recognition in the older man’s eyes, yet nothing appeared.

He dropped his gaze and shook his head.

“No, nothing. I apologize for interrupting your evening.”

John, defeated, turned and started back up the stairs. Just then -

“Wait,” said Mr. Thomas. “Can it be…?”

John froze and walked back into the brightly lit hall. He gazed at the footman with an eager expression.

Mr. Thomas’s face looked positively stricken.

“Johnny?” He whispered incredulously. “Johnny Hamish Watson, is that you?”

John felt tears prick his eyes. He swallowed and nodded his head.

“Mr. Thomas,” he managed to choke out. “Yes, it’s me.”

The old man howled with glee as he rushed forward to embrace the young surgeon. He squeezed him so hard it pushed the breath clean out of John’s lungs.

“Where have you been?!” He said, wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his sleeve. “The last we heard you’d went into the army never to be heard from again. How long has it been?”

“Fifteen years?” John replied, suddenly ashamed for not writing sooner. “I thought if I wrote - well, I feared it would cause trouble.”

“Well, you sit down now, and have a cuppa,” Mr. Thomas insisted. “Oh, this is a miracle! Johnny Watson, home again at last!” He sat down next to him and said eagerly,. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

Hours later, John crawled into bed with Sherlock, who was, of course, not yet asleep. He snuggled up next to him and let out a long, indulgent sigh.

“How did it go?”

“It was good,” John said softly. “Better than good. Mr. Thomas finally recognized me. It felt good to catch up with…”

Sherlock finished the sentence for him.

“Family?”

“Yes. Family.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment.

“John, the man on the camel...I know his name.”

John froze. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Sherlock went on. “The portrait was painted in India in 1819. The man is James Stuart.”

He waited for John to comment. When he didn’t, he continued.

“James Stuart was the firstborn son of Matthew’s grandfather, Bertie Stuart. But family lore states he and his father had a falling out, so he became a missionary in Africa.”

“Sherlock,” said John warily. “Can we get to the point of all this?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his fingers steepled against his lips.

“James Stuart reportedly died during a raid in one of the villages where he was a stationed, leaving the title to Albert, and then after he passed, to his first born, Matthew.”

“I don’t understand. None of this makes sense,” mumbled John.

Sherlock gazed at him intensely. “It doesn’t. But the fact remains, there is a painting in the library that resembles you in a most striking way.”

There was a soft knock at the door. John gave Sherlock a concerned look and jumped up from the bed.

Behind the door was Mr. Thomas, holding a candle with one hand and a small thick envelope with the other.

“Johnny, I almost forgot,” said Mr. Thomas. “This letter came for you shortly after you left for Luss. I sent notice to my sister in Currie, but you had already passed on. It’s been waiting on you for fifteen years to open it.”

John took the small envelope. He smiled back at Mr. Thomas.

“Mr. Thomas, I do hope I can count on you to call on me in Edinburgh,” he said. “I am happy to forward train fare.”

Mr. Thomas beamed. “Johnny, wild dogs couldn't’ keep me from it. Good night then.”

John crawled back into bed with Sherlock and stared at the envelope in his hand.

“Oh for God sakes, John,” barked Sherlock impatiently. He snatched the envelope out of his hand and tore it open. A key with a note fell out onto the bed.

Sherlock picked up the key and inspected it.

“Key to a safety deposit box...Fidelity Trust and Savings in Berwick Upon Tweed,” he murmured.

John gingerly retrieved the small piece of paper, his hand not quite steady as he read the handwritten note aloud:

  
Robert S. Albany  
Barrister and Solicitor

_September 4, 1870_

_Mister John Hamish Watson:_

_Please accept our deepest apologies in failing to deliver this package in person as instructed. Solicitor Barnes is currently convalescing from a bout of enteric fever and is unable to travel at this time._

_As this matter is extremely time sensitive, I approved this mailing directly to your employer’s residence Halidon Hall of Berwick Upon Tweed at once._

_The enclosed key unlocks Box 4 at your local Fidelity Trust and Savings._

_Humbley,_

_R.S. Albany_

  
“This matter is extremely time sensitive?” said John, rather confused.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sighed. “Now I'll never fall asleep.”

\-----------

The next morning, despite a few fallen limbs and some pummeled plants, there was no sign of the storm that had raged through the night.

John and Sherlock sat side by side in the passenger carriage, listening to the train huff and puff while idling. Sherlock was desperately forcing his mouth closed and had resorted to sitting upon his hands. His leg still bounced in a steady, nervous rhythm, as his eyes fixated on the wall across of him.

John threw his head back and groaned.

“Fine!” he grumbled. “You’re way, always your way.” He pulled out the envelope they had found in the bank’s deposit box.

Indeed the duo had not slept a wink. They were up with the servants, Sherlock arranging a ride back to town while John penned a thank you note to the marquess. They had coffee and a proper fry up at a restaurant directly across from the Fidelity Trust and Savings building. As soon as the town square’s clock struck 8am, they strode into the bank and showed the key to the clerk and requested box number 4.

Upon opening the small wooden container, John discovered inside his father’s Bible and a note addressed to him in handwriting he instinctively knew to be Hamish Watson’s.

He had refused to open the letter right away. Carefully he placed the Bible inside his bag and instinctively made his way to the train station. Sherlock patiently walked beside him without a word.

He proceeded to buy two train tickets in utter silence and board the passenger carriage. The train was only half-full so they had a row to themselves.

It suddenly all became too much for Sherlock. He began to fidget, then sigh. He tucked his long fingers under his thighs, but his leg continued to bounce without ceasing for a full 3 minutes and John folded like a bad hand in poker.

John pulled out the letter, but before he opened it to read, Sherlock placed a gentle hand on his. The nobleman gave him a small reassuring smile and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze before releasing them.

John unfolded the paper, his hand shaking a little as he read it to himself.

_My Dearest John,_

_As I write this letter, you are a mere five years old and playing at my feet. These past years in the twilight of my life have been the happiest I’ve known. First your mother, now you. I cannot begin to describe my gratitude to our Creator for how rich my life has become. I am living in a perpetual springtime when at my age, winter is also closing in._

_Your mother encouraged me to write you now, in case I am not able to be there for you when you are older. This will be the first of many letters I will write and store for you; however, this may be the most interesting of them all._

_I was called by our Creator at a young age. I left my home to become a missionary in western Africa. I returned home after a devastating fire had wiped out one of the villages where I was teaching school. During my journey home, I found out that word had reached my family that I had perished in the fire. Instead of correcting the papers and visiting my family to ensure I was alive, I returned to the mission and later, changed my name._

_You see, my dear John, I was born into a noble family, my father (and your grandfather) was a marquess called Bertram Alan Stuart. My mother (your grandmother) was the daughter of a Highland clan chief. Molly Watson married the Bertie Stuart, the Marquess of Berwick, in 1800. I was the firstborn of two sons. My brother, your uncle, is Albert Stuart._

_Your grandfather and I did not get along directly. Being firstborn I was groomed from an early age as the heir. I wanted to study, to become a doctor or a vicar, but my father refused to indulge my wishes. A profession would never become any gentleman, let alone a marquess, as you know._

_Your grandfather was an ingenious investor. Much to my chagrin, I traveled with him to India to complete a business transaction. While we were there, a skirmish broke out between Indians and the British. I saw enough blood and violence to last me a lifetime. After the British forces finally squelched the uprising, your grandfather celebrated by having my portrait painted by sitting on a camel dressed as an Indian. I left the next day, leaving only a letter of where I was heading and a promise to write._

_I did write to your grandmother. She and I were alike, much more so than your grandfather. My only regret in life is keeping this secret from her. I told your mother after she gave birth to you, John. I know she’ll be able to help explain this in better detail when the time comes._

_As you play at my feet, I can only think happy thoughts. Who knew having children could fill someone with such hope? My hopes for you, my dear John, is that you find your own purpose in life. Find a profession you love, take care of your health, and always listen to your heart._

_I love you, my son._

_Hamish Watson_

John hadn’t realized he was crying until he saw one of his tears drop onto the letter. He handed it over to Sherlock, then buried his head in his hands.

Sherlock read the letter quickly and was on his feet in a flash.

“Exactly what we needed,” he grinned. “Proof, right here in my hand. John, get your bag.”

John raised his head, his eyes puffed up from emotion. “What?” He answered pathetically. “Why?”

“What do you mean, _why_ ,” Sherlock answered impatiently. “We’re going back to Halidon Hall, calling on the dowager marchioness, and berate and shame her for keeping this from you!”

John shook his head. “How do you know -...”

Sherlock cut him off, whirling around the carriage like a mad man. “That’s why she dismissed you John. Your mother must have used the knowledge as leverage to gain employment. A vicar’s widow, a young child - it all makes sense now!”

John struggled to his feet as his anger grew at the marchioness and her secrets. He grabbed his bag and followed Sherlock through the aisle of the carriage.

“It’ll strip Matthew of the title, since you are the rightful heir. Oh I can’t wait to see the look on that devious old woman’s face -”

“Wait.” John’s hand shot out and gripped Sherlock’s arm. “I don’t want this.”

Sherlock sighed. “John, we haven’t the time.” He jumped out onto the platform and with long strides made his way back toward the station. He quickly realized John wasn’t following behind him.

Instead, the young surgeon stubbornly glared at him from the steps of the train cart. He crossed his arms, digging in his heels.

“Don’t be absurd!” Sherlock shouted.

When John didn't budge, he reluctantly, angrily stomped back to the train.

“All aboard!” an attendant shouted in the distance.

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock’s face was a scrambled mess of confusion. “She threw you out onto the street with nowhere to go, knowing full well you were the heir. She must atone.”

His translucent eyes flashed with rage for the injustice brought upon his friend, his partner.

“Isn't this what you've been waiting for? To bring that horrible woman to her knees?”

John shook his head in disbelief. Did the man not know him at all?

“No, no it’s not.” He licked his lips and tried to think of a way he could make him understand. He closed his eyes in thought. “Being a surgeon, a healer, a soldier makes me happy, gives me a purpose.”

He then opened his eyes, his gaze settling softly on Sherlock’s odd and distinctly beautiful face. “What's done is done. Marching into Halidon Hall and shaming an old lady won't erase my suffering. it will just create more torment for others.”

“Please, she's not some helpless old lady.” Sherlock seethed, his indignation glowering through narrowed eyes.”She must pay for her deceit .”

John looked at him incredulously. “Don't you think she already has? Worried every day her dirty little secret would be exposed?”

John realized he was getting nowhere with the nobleman. He wasn't used to swallowing bitter truth, like John had learned to over the years.

He leaned in, keeping his voice as low as he could over the whistle of the train. “If I marched in there and demanded the title, our lives would be like one of your specimens under a microscope.”

“But it’s your birthright,” Sherlock growled back. “You are the heir. You are the marquess of Berwick!” He hissed.

John shook his head. “No, I’m not. Matthew is the marquess.” He licked his lips in frustration. “My father decided to be a vicar. That’s my legacy.”

Sherlock, riddled with confusion, replied simply, earnestly. “But they are your family, John.”

The steam blew out of the stacks as the metal wheels squeaked against the rails. The train began to move, easing its way along the platform.

“You’re my family” John insisted, his eyes becoming damp. He looked away, embarrassed, failing to swallow the emotions bubbling up inside of him.

Sherlock walked alongside the cart, his gaze fixated on John, refusing to give in, convinced he could still make him listen to reason.

“John…” he pleaded.

“Sherlock, I choose you.”

He finally met the nobleman’s gaze.

“Am I not good enough for you, just as I am?”

The words pierced Sherlock's heart like a bullet, realizing his error.

He began to run, and grabbed the bar along the door, hoisting himself up onto the steps of the carriage. John took a step back and grabbed him around the waist to steady him.

They both eased back into the train and found their seat. They both sat in an uncomfortable silence for a good hour before speaking.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence.

“We’ll go to London,” Sherlock announced abruptly. “I own a flat in a center but unassuming locale. Mrs. Hudson must retire from her cook’s duties, and we’ll need a housekeeper.” He glanced at John.

“I've got over a year left on my fellowship,” John said carefully.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, the nodded almost imperceptively.

“Mrs. Hudson has a sister that lives in Provence that she's always wanted to visit. And Edinburgh has an incredible facility that keeps a supply of fresh cadavers for scientific research.”

John managed a small smile, his heart almost exploding with happiness at Sherlock's words.

Sherlock managed a sheepish grin. He placed his long, black coat between them on the seat and slid his long fingers over John's small, steady hand.

“London,” John said softly.

“Alright?” Sherlock replied.

John nodded and smiled. “Yeah.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand under the jacket. “Yeah, I finally am.”

 

\---to be continued----third installment to appear in early 2017

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the final segment "Baron Your Secrets" to be published early 2017.


End file.
